


Bunny's Goes-A Courtin': The Original Version

by CronesDistaff



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Community: rotg kink meme, Courtship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Forgiveness, Friendship/Love, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Romance, Soul Magic, Souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:46:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CronesDistaff/pseuds/CronesDistaff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For easier reading, navigation, and amusement, here's the original semi-incoherent version of the BGaC from the RotG kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smitten and Frostbitten

**Author's Note:**

> This is the exact version of BGaC from the RotG Kink Meme. The chapters are (mostly) shorter, and I have not fixed any typos, plot holes, etc. After Chapter 11, it will intersect with the the newer version, so it will not be updated. 
> 
> NOTE: If any of the original fan artists from the meme would like their work posted here, let me know.
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy this haphazardly put together inspired mess while I work on getting the revamp finished.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters belong to William Joyce and DreamWorks Animation SKG, Inc. Any pop culture references belong to their respective media and associated companies

It was all Frost’s fault.

Well, that went without saying, naturally, but—still, this time, it really was his fault. 

Bunnymund scowled, restlessly pacing in the sanctuary of his warren. He flexed his forepaws, clenching and unclenching around an imaginary frosty neck. 

There was no way he could have anticipated this. He bit his lip and jerked his head, his thoughts jumbling like eggs in boiling water. 

He had to make a decision.

Part of him snagged briefly on his irritation. The blizzard of ’68! It cried, though recalling the actual memory of Jack "before" ached like wiggling a loose tooth with his tongue.

Not to mention that fact that the kid looked so alien to him. Cold as a slip of arctic wind, small, gangly, wispy as willow branches, far, far too bare and pale. His puny clawless hands and feet, little useless round ears and what was the point of that a stubby, ineffective nose? His big ridiculous smile unnerved him with those weird unified teeth, and those unsettlingly blue doe eyes--God, he should be so ugly. He should make Bunny cringe at the unnaturalness of him, the distinctly un-Pooka-ness of his body.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t forget the way Jack’s hair rustled like rimed pine, the cold, distant glow of starlight in his skin, the cracked, splintering ice in his smile, the faint jangle of swaying icicles in his laugh. Oh, and then, those eyes—those hideous-wonderful eyes—how they cut into him like ice water seizing his lungs. 

He wanted it all to himself. The strange, ugly, alien, beautifully unnatural thing that was Jack had gone far too long without proper appreciation. 

'300 years,' he thought and shivered. 

How he missed the good ol’ days when he was ignorant.

His brief experience was enough, that gut-wrenching moment when Easter was destroyed, when the children didn’t acknowledge him, when they walked right through him as he tried to touch them—God, it made him sick just thinking about it. So helpless, so hopeless, so lost, so desperate.

He hadn’t felt so broken since he first realized he was the only one of his kind left. 

And Frostbite managed it for three centuries without even understanding why.

Privately, Bunny had hoped their strange little family would be a balm for the blighter. He much preferred an irritatingly giddy Jack Frost to the lonely, angry child, no matter what he said or did, otherwise. After what Jack did for them, for him and Easter, especially, he deserved to be happy.

“Which is why I’m stuck in this bloody situation in the first place!” He snarled, startling his beloved eggs into frantic scurrying. “Couldn’t just leave the situation alone! Nope, had to go insinuate meself, had to look after him like a good mate,” his fur bristled, “had to listen to those stickybeaks, and--and—and damn those eyes, anyway!”

It was all Jack’s fault for brooding enough to worry North, it was his fault for pushing away Tooth and Sandy with his temper tantrums, and it was his fault that Bunny had to confront something he’d barely realized about himself that was suddenly right there.

“I just—I guess I’m just…overwhelmed,” Jack had sighed, absently tracing the whorls and grooves of his hooked staff as he sat in the snow. “I understand you guys think of me like…one of you, maybe, or a friend, or something, but—“

“But what?” Bunny had huffed from beside him, raising a brow. “You can’t accept us as your family? Mate, you are a Guardian. We aren’t going anywhere, and neither are you. We’re in this together.”

“Oh, and everything’s sunshine and rainbows now, is that it? Fantastic!” he laughed, brittle shards of his voice grating on Bunny’s ears. “I can just disregard everything that’s ever happened to me because, hey, the Man in the Moon made it all better, and, oh, how could I forget, the Easter Bilby’s finally got my back!” 

Bunnymund felt his eye twitch—'A bilby?'—and nearly—'Seriously, a bilby?!'—lashed back with a nasty retort. In the end, he took a deep breath and gave Jack a long, resigned stare; the boy broke, fidgeting away and ducking his head as a light frost crawled across his cheeks. 

“We were worried about you, Snowflake,” he had said quietly, deliberately. “I can see that we’re not worth the same courtesy.”

Jack reared up like a startled horse. 

Bunny said nothing and waited.

“What do you mean? I-I worry about you guys!” He sounded so affronted. “How can you say I don’t? After everything I--”

“It’s not the same thing, Jackie. Yes, you’re worried when we have outside threats to face, but you totally distance yourself from us when the enemy’s inside. What affects you has an effect on all of us. That’s what a family is.”

There was a pause, and then a pained whisper, a murmur of flurries.

“I don’t remember.”

The poor boy looked so dismayed, it twisted at Bunny’s heart. He took Jack’s hand in his paw, ignoring the winter spirit’s sudden flinch.

“Mate,” he caught Jack’s eyes before he could duck his head again, “I may not understand what it was like for you all this time, at least not completely, but—but I do get it, Jack. I get it and I want to help.”

Jack flicked his eyes back to his staff and bit his lip.

“Please, Frostbite,” Bunny insisted softly, “tell me what’s eatin’ ya. Or I’ll set North on ya instead.”

That startled a laugh out of him; Bunny ground his teeth in a purr before he could stop it.

“Stuff like this,” Jack started haltingly, darting his eyes from their hands to Bunny’s face as if waiting for an attack. Once, he would have been right to worry. 

Bunny just quirked his ears inquisitively. “Yeah?”

“I—It—” A steady frost graced the boy’s cheeks, ears, and neck as he choked, the words lodged in his throat. Finally, he grunted and spat through clenched teeth, “I don’t remember it! I don’t remember what it was like, and I see it all the time, and Tooth and North try to do it when I see them, and I want to, and I can’t!”

There was a longer pause, a glacial chasm, before Jack rearranged his face into a placid, playful mask, treacherous and fragile as a frozen pond.

“’Course,” he drawled, “if I’d known that widdle Bun-Bun wanted to hold my hand—”

“Widdle Jackie doesn’t seem to mind,” Bunny smirked, and tightened his grip when Jack predictably tried to jerk away in embarrassment. “The problem here, Frost, is that you’re trying to get too much too quick. 

"North will bombard you with bear hugs and arms over the shoulder, and Tooth won’t stop touching your face, and, obviously, you have a personal bubble wide and jagged as the Great Barrier Reef.” 

He nodded pointedly at their hands. 

“Start small. Let us know if you get uncomfortable. Bailing out the window mid-convo doesn’t exactly help.”

Jack sighed and tilted his head in agreement. “I’ll try.”

“Good on ya.” Bunny released his chilled hand, patting it briefly, and made to stand.

“Hey…Aster?”

He froze. Hardly anyone called him that anymore. 

He expected the show pony to be smirking, eyes glittering in mischievous glee at throwing him so off-guard; instead, Jack’s face was so achingly open and vulnerable Bunny wanted to scrub it away with his paws. 

“Could’ya just…” Jack muttered, breath crackling, “sit with me for awhile? If—If that’s okay?”

Bunny felt his chest tighten. For Jack to show such trust in him… “Sure,” he managed, gruffly. “All right.”

The silence resumed, waiting, until Jack’s hand edged hesitantly back into his paw.

He’d pretended not to notice the chill seeping into his pads.

He’d pretended not to notice the sigh of frost against his fur when Jack’s head rested against his arm after what felt like an age.

He’d pretended to not be distracted by the scent of clean snow and water that always jangled badly against his instincts. 

And then awareness had struck, like a bright bead of dew dancing across a thread of spider silk, the instant his chin nuzzled against pure white hair.

“A mate!” Bunny howled in dismay, tugging on his ears as he plopped down a mossy rock. “Oh, strewth, a mate!”

Granted, he’d admired Jack—sometimes—and thought he was worthy to be a Guardian and a friend after the battle against Pitch, but part of him had always assumed he’d stay an annoying, aggravating little dag and nothing more. Now the larger part of him that knew better unlocked a veritable hidden treasure trove of Jack-obsessed thoughts and laughed in his face.

His mind was a traitorous bastard.

Bunny growled and kicked a fair-sized stone into the River of Coloring. It was distinctly unsatisfying.

“What am I supposed to do now?” His nose twitched as he thumped his leg in agitation. “Right, don’t be a dill, Aster! Of course you know the bloody answer to that delightful question!”

Either he ignored the situation and hoped to the Man in the Moon and back that it went away, or—

He couldn’t believe he was even considering “or”.

“Or, against all commonsense, you present your suit to a member of a completely different species and...”

'And, what? Hope he accepts? Hope he doesn’t?'

Bunny closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. “Time to cut the bullpucky. What do I want?”

'Do I want Frost to accept?

'Do I want to share his life?

'Do I want to bind myself to a Guardian still at risk of fading?'

'I won’t let him fade,' was the immediate answer. 

'Then will I give everything I am for him?'

He remembered that hesitant hand clutching his.

'Yes.'

'Can I protect him, provide for him everything he deserves even though I’m not his kind?'

He remembered the hope, pain, and longing in those shining blue eyes, and the whisper of an errant thought: He should never feel this way again…

'Yes.'

'Do I love him?'

The lingering resentment for Jack’s behavior, the bitterness like a gaping wound for his constant teasing, baiting, snarking, and pranking was brushed aside for the rightness of their clasped hands, the awe of his carefully offered trust, the fluttering moth wings of an impulse when Jack bit his smooth lip—bet he tastes as cold and pure as he smells—and the softness of white frost against his chin.

'Yes,' he thought.

Bunny stood and nodded briskly. “Then we do this right.”


	2. North's Blessing

“Why does the North Pole have to be so bloody cold?!” Bunny snarled as he popped up from his rabbit hole and bolted through the cutting wind and snow toward the workshop.

The irony that he wanted to court the embodiment of winter was not lost on him, but he brushed it aside. He’d need all his wits to deal with North in what looked to be a rather unpleasant conversation.

The smell of North’s workshop was something he could never quite stand. It bashed into his nose, an unpleasant soup of sweat, wood, plastic, metal, sugar, and musky Yeti. An accompaniment of gibbering, jingling elves and grumbling walking carpets made it homey to North, he knew. To each his own.

He had just bounded out the balcony threshold, startling a passing yeti—what was his name? Mike? Brad? Phil?—into dropping a load of orange My Little Ponies with a stream of unrepeatable cuss words. 

Bunny winced. “Sorry, mate. Can I help ya?”

Bob--or maybe it was Mitch?—snarled and spat curses at him through yellowed teeth.

“Oi, don’t you even start on Easter!” Bunny puffed up like ruffled pigeon, bailing him up. “You have no idea what goes into it! Did ya see those eggs?! Do you remember painting them?!”

Maybe-Richard grunted.

“What did you just say?! Your blasted friendship ponies aren’t better than my googies! Ya can’t eat rainbow sparkles!”

Before the scene could escalate, North’s boisterous voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Bunny! Is good to be seeing you!” The bearded guardian came to a stop and threw a look between the two. “What are you doing?”

“Nothin’, just wasn’t expecting this guy to get all agro on me over some ponies.”

The yeti sneered at him.

“Oh, well, excuse me, ya bloody Brony!”

“Bunny, if you please, follow me. We shall talk in my office!” North smiled, pushing the Pooka front of him as he glanced down at the pony disaster. “Take them back!” He barked, gesturing dismissively at Maybe-Brendan. “Make them green with mint cutie marks! Do not skimp on glitter!”

The yeti yowled and kicked in frustration, stubbing a toe on a pointy plastic ear as he sent a wave of ponies across the floor.

“I saw that!” 

North sighed and shook his head as they left the hall. “So hard to find good yetis these days. Still, they do great detail work even with massive bean-bag fingers. Maybe they do not like the elves?”

“Er. I reckon.” Bunny made a face at the thought of Santa’s little “helpers” and the last time they tried to sing “12 Days of Christmas” in several pitches—simultaneously—deafening the Yetis in the process. “S’not why I’m here, though.”

“Ah. It’s about Jack, then, yes?”

“How’d you know?!” 

He’d come to accept that North always seemed to know when guests arrived in his domain, but there was no way he could get any news from his warren. At least, there better not be. He was going to have a little talk with his sentinels when he got home.

“Because,” North shrugged as he herded them inside his wondrous office and shut the door with an ominous clank, “if not about bad news, then is always about Jack.” He snorted. “Why would you talk to me about Easter?”

“Not for any sane reason.” Bunny rolled his eyes as the man sat behind his desk and fiddled with some boat contraption or another.

“So, what is the problem? Last time you had—what did you call it—a “right barney” with Jack was months ago. He is no longer skittish like baby reindeer.” He smiled, eyes twinkling merrily. “I believe we are real family now.”

“Yeah.” Bunny gulped, standing straight, chin jutting forward. “An’ that’s why I’m here.”

A heavy, dark brow arched toward North’s snowy hairline.

“I, E. Aster Bunnymund,” he intoned, every bit a proud Pooka, “Guardian of Hope, Herald of Spring, hereby declare my intention to court Jackson Overland Frost, Guardian of Fun and Herald of Winter. I ask for your blessing.”

The sudden suffocating pause was not comforting.

He hadn’t thought North’s eyebrows could crawl so high, either.

North opened his mouth, closed it, cleared his throat, then opened his mouth and shut it again. 

“Well,” he said, finally, “this is rather abrupt, Bunny.”

Bunny snorted. 

‘He’s acting like I asked him to marry me,’ he thought, then cringed, and promptly squashed that nightmarish imagery.

“You must understand my position. To my knowledge, you and Jack have been like-well—greyhounds and bunnies.”

Bunny’s eye twitched at the reminder of that blasted devil dog and the incident in which he absolutely did not shriek like a terrified little girl.

“And you think you can maintain a bonding?” North huffed doubtfully and leaned back, steepling his fingers. “I do not know much about the Pooka, but I know that what you have done here is more permanent than simple mating.” 

“I’m not doin’ this lightly,” Bunny insisted. 

“Despite your rivalry, I do not think you’d do it as a joke, since you are at risk for more humiliation. Which leads me to wonder, if perhaps, this is merely gratitude for finding someone who values Easter as you do.”

Bunny realized he’d starting hissing like a mad tea kettle sometime after the word “joke” and clamped his mouth shut.

North blinked. “I know how much that meant to you, that Jack would put you and your holiday above the rest of us, to make up for his unintentional abandonment—”

“That started our truce, yeah, but that’s not what led to this!” 

“Oh?” he asked, voice deceptively lilting, “then what did?”

“I—It’s hard to explain.”

“Does Jack know?”

“…Not yet.”

A perturbed expression settled on North’s face. “He does not even know of your intent?”

“Er,” Bunny shuffled his feet, “not quite, I expect. Pooka, you see, generally we only chin someone we’ve—uh—been with for a bit, but sometimes you just know, and you chin ‘em and just go, and sometimes that’s not an option. Ya have to be delicate, and that’s when you decide to court. Officially. To help things along.”

“So he’s not chinned.”

The silence was worse.

“He is?”

Bunny fastened his green eyes just over North’s shoulder. “Partially.”

“But—But—That doesn’t make sense! Why would he let you mark him if—”

If possible, the silence got louder.

And then, North spoke, dangerously quiet, dangerously sharp, dangerously everything. “You did it without his permission?” 

“Not—Not consciously—“

“What, so now you say you didn’t want to?”

“No!—Yes!—No, I--!”

“You half-marked him based on one-sided, unwanted attraction, and now you mean to marry him without him understanding the situation?”

“No!”

“Jack is stuck physically as teen, and you want this boy who has never had any intimacy in 300 years to be tied to you forever in a romantic capacity? You are last egg short of the dozen if you think I will agree to this, Bunny!”

“Would ya belt up already?!” Bunny bellowed, fuming as North made him out to be some kind of deviant. “Jack is partially marked because I stopped myself! I didn’t want to force him into anything like that! Jack has always been his own man, and this needs to be his decision! I know what he’s gone through better than any of us, and I’m not some monster, so don’t you dare imply that I am!”

“Then what is your thought, Bunny? Explain this to me.”

“I need him, can ya understand that?” 

North sighed. “Perhaps Jack is motivational factor in your Easter preparations--!”

“This has nothing to do with bloody Easter! Would ya forget about Easter for ten ruddy seconds?!”

North shut his mouth, gobsmacked, and looked around before sadly realizing that no one else had heard him say that. 

“I don’t know what I can say to you,” Bunny glared, green eyes like daggers as he bit the words out, “but I need Jack, and he—he needs me. He visits the warren when he’s not out making snow days, and you don’t see him. You don’t get it. He’s happy when he’s with me. He smiles real smiles. He’s bright, and alive, and he doesn’t flit about like he’s made of cracking ice! He’s comfortable with me, safe with me! He can—He can forget he was alone, and—and so can I. He can just be Jack and I can just be Aster. When we’re together it—it’s home.”

“You can’t know someone until you’ve hated and loved him in turn, yes?”

Bunny shrugged, uncomfortable with having admitted so much, and folded his forepaws across his chest.

“You think he feels the same way?”

“Dunno,” he paused, hackles rising at the knowing look in North’s eyes. “Figured I’d give it a go anyway.”

“You are very tenacious when it comes to Jack,” North replied easily, making Bunny stare at him. “And you choose this formality instead of mating because…?”

“Because it gives Jack the choice to be mine instead of having it thrown at him.” He drew himself up. “And because it’s official, forever. No more doubts about his worth.”

“And if he rejects you? Can you still work with him as a Guardian?”

“I did it when I hated him. It would be no different.”

North gave him a look that said he’d beg to differ, but continued on. “You really mean to go through with this all the way? No playing?”

“No playing. Not with his heart.”

North hummed noncommittally, tipping his head back and forth as though rolling marbles around in his skull. 

“Okay,” he said finally, leaving forward in his chair. “I give you blessing if, and only if, Jack accepts. And only because I believe you will both be happy if you succeed.”

Bunny rolled his eyes, trying to shove down the embarrassment making his ears twitch. Trust North to believe him solely on romantic rhetoric. 

“It is strange, though, that you ask me for this, if you think Jack is free spirit.”

“You said it yourself, mate. We’re a family now; Jackie thinks of you like his father, not that he’ll admit it. He wants your approval when he thinks something counts. Besides, without your blessing, I’d have to settle for something less, and I won’t do that when it comes to Frostbite.”

“I know,” North smiled benevolently, making Bunny narrow his eyes, but the bearded guardian barreled over his growing suspicion that he’d just been played. “Any reason besides lull in holidays that you ask now?”

“It’s the right time. I can feel it,” he paused, then smirked, patting his middle, “in my belly.”

North laughed. “There is time for everything and everything in its time, yes?”

“Glad to see you’re paying attention.”

“Okay, Bunny. I get it. Just, don’t go too fast with Jack, but do not be too cautious with him, either.”

Bunny wrinkled in nose in consternation. “Not giving me much leeway here, mate.”

“Look,” North began, pointing at him, “you tell me once that you trust me to speak the acid. This is important, so I am doing this now. If you are too aggressive, Jack will go back to skittish reindeer; if you are too vague, Jack will wear naïve blinders through whole thing. It will be like throwing eggs at cold, brick wall. Hilarious to watch reenacted with elves, but pointlessly sad for you. Do not become the schadenfreude.”

“What’re you German now?”

North snorted. “Please, I speak fluent everything. You do not even want to know what the hamsters call it. Oh, and you should also let Tooth and Sandy know, so there is no unintentional hindering.” He shooed him away with a flick of his hands. “Now go get your snowmate before I change my mind.” 

“Thanks, North,” Bunny gave him a nod, then tapped his foot, and disappeared down the rabbit hole.

It occurred to him, as he near about binkied his way down the tunnel that North had never once objected to his non-human status on Jack’s behalf.


	3. Bunny's Favor

He could hardly believe it’d only been a few months since the battle with Pitch, five months, roughly, since he became a Guardian.

It felt twice that.

It didn’t help that Jack Frost wasn’t a huge fan of summer. 

Granted, it was hilarious when pedestrians freaked out at the sudden black ice that had no business being on the boiling hot sidewalk, but the appeal wore off quickly. Summer made it far more difficult to play with Jaime, his first believer, without becoming the spirit equivalent of a garden hose, and elsewhere in the world, his job was accomplished far too quickly. Adding snow to more snow and giving a cool breeze to deserts and tundra was hardly exciting, and, well, one couldn’t pick on the penguins forever. 

Okay, yeah, that last bit was a total lie. 

But even setting foot in Antarctica made Jack think of the countless times he’d been forced to take solace in the sweeping ice cathedrals, jagged crystal peaks, and the cold, dead silence when his pond was seasonally taken from him. The scabbing, bleeding tear in his heart from three centuries of unending isolation, pain, and betrayal was not something he cared to revisit. Ever. 

Giving that part of his past wide berth left him with only one painless reprieve, which really wasn’t painless at all.

Bunnymund.

“Oh, Jack, Jack, Jack,” he groaned, tapping his skull with his staff, snowflakes fluttering to the ice sheet below him, “what’s wrong with you?”

He wanted to say that it was Bunny’s fault. Well, really, it kinda was. He didn’t have to be so sympathetic with those stupid big green eyes, and that stupid accent, and that stupid soft fur, and—and—and that stupid hand grabbing!

‘Who’re you trying to kid, Jack? It’s not like he knew better.’

Bunny said that he got it, but he didn’t. And he never would. He would never know how much it felt like a knife in his chest when everyone walked through him. How the blade twisted when he had to watch them touch and embrace and see and acknowledge everything else but him for three hundred years, and then feel that knife flay him alive the instant he realized that the wrongness of it screaming in his head meant that he had existed once—that he had been loved once!—that he had belonged once!—and that the Moon had taken that away from him.

He was being punished, and he couldn’t even remember why.

And knowing the truth now made those years of torture so much worse.

So Bunny could never know how much it meant that he made eye contact, that he used his name, that he gave him nicknames, that he walked with him, and teased him, and sat with him, and listen to him, and talked to him even when Jack had nothing to say. 

But most of all, and most importantly, Bunny could never know how much it meant to Jack to be touched, so perfectly he wanted to cry because it hurt.

North tried to hug him as though to protect him from the world. It felt like slush on his skin.

Tooth tried to hug him in gentle support, brief but lingering like the phantom weight of a bird on his shoulder.

Bunny hugged him as though to say they would face the world together, that any burden Jack faced he would bear on his shoulders, too. 

When Bunny held his hand, Jack nearly shattered. 

Because Bunny was soft, he was warm, he was strong, he was irritating, he was safe, he was different, he hated him, he befriended him and knew him, he knew he was Jack—he knew he was “Jack bloody Frost” with every nasty, crushing, cutting, angry thing that meant between them—and he still held his hand anyway.

He made Jack feel like he deserved it.

Unconditionally.

Bunny would never know how much Jack wanted that, needed that, loved that with everything he was—and how much he hated himself for it. 

Being believed in should have meant everything. He wasn’t prepared to be a Guardian. His desperate need for the children’s faith consumed him. The crippling wish for his new family to please just accept him—please, just want me, please, just give me meaning, please, just love me, please!--damaged him in a way he could never possibly explain.

His love for Bunnymund killed him slowly. 

‘Well done, Jack,’ he laughed bitterly in his head, ‘you’ve fallen in love with a giant rabbit that can never love you back because you are nothing he could ever want!’

Because Bunny—strange, irritating, obnoxiously wonderful, horrifically perfect Bunny—was, and always would be, a Pooka.

And Jack was, and always would be… not. 

His chilled fingers found the pendant around his neck and clutched it. It would open a portal for him, he knew, straight to the warren—straight to Bunny—and headlong into the pain he had to welcome because there was no alternative.

But, at least, he could hide behind a smile.

\--

Jack was coming.

Bunny sniffed the air and turned his ear toward the warren’s entryway as a cold breeze knocked over a row of scuttling eggs. 

‘Subtle,’ he thought and snorted.

“Well,” Bunny said to his sentinels, “that speeds everythin’ up a bit, yeah?”

The rock faces swiveled, grinding until settling on a carved stone panel of a smile.

“I just hope North is right about this.” He sighed. “If he makes me look like idjit in front of Frostbite—“

“Hiya, Bun-Bun,” a voice chirped in his ear, and Bunny just about hopped out of his skin with a very high-pitched squeal. 

“Frost!” he snarled, glaring at the grinning boy hovering above him. “Will ya quit doin’ that?! “

“But you bristle like a cat!” Jack laughed, the sound like a cool, bubbling spring. “Maybe I should start calling you “Mr. Tinkles” instead?”

“What—WHAT didja just say?!” Bunny really would rather let himself bask in Jack’s gently teasing smile, but he could not let that one go. “Mr. Tinkles?! Ya cannot call me, the Easter Bunny, Mr. Tinkles! You can shove that idea right up your--!”

“Yeeeaaaaeah, now that I think about it,” Jack tilted his head thoughtfully as he flipped, pausing upside down for a moment, “you’d look terrible in a bonnet.”

“A bonnet?! Do I look like Little Bo Peep ta you?!” Bunny blustered. “You’re as mad as a box of frogs!” 

“Wow.” Jack frowned, righting himself, and drawled, “You are so not with the times.”

“Wouldja knock off the Tinkerbell routine and get down here already?!”

“I dunno,” he said, leaning back as he made a viewing square with his fingers, “it’s a pretty good view from up here. Although, by the looks of it, someone should really tell you to lay off the Easter pound cake; lil Joey’s gotta breathe.” 

Bunny felt his whole face twitch and his foot thumped wildly as he roared, “I AM NOT A KANGAROO!”

“Oh, well, then, lay off the Easter cannibalism.” He smirked, and then quirked an eyebrow. “Is it cannibalism if it’s chocolate?”

“Get. Down. Here. Now!” Bunny seethed through clenched teeth, his nostrils flaring as Jack bloody Frost nipped at his very last nerve.

“I don’t think so. You look like you might hurt me. And not in a good way.”

“FROST!”

“Yes, Thumper?”

“Oh, ya did not just--!”

“Would you prefer Bambi?”

“Jack--!”

“Oh, I got it! Bibbles!”

“Why ya scrawny little snot-nosed-!”

“No, no—Wait!” He snapped his fingers and announced triumphantly, “Twinkle-Whiskers!”

Bunny lunged with a battle cry and snarled as Jack zipped away. “Come here and fight me like a man!”

“You’re not a man; you’re a marsupial!”

“I’M A BUNNY!”

“Monotreme!”

“SAY THAT TA MY FACE!”

“Just did, Peaches!”

“FROST!” Bunny kicked off a rock, swiping his paws at Jack’s legs, and growled, “Get back here, ya bloody--!”

Jack dodged another lunge, somersaulting as he sang tauntingly, “Little Bunny Foo Foo hoppin’ through the forest!”

“NO! NOT THAT FRAKIN’ SONG!” Bunny howled, rebounded off the ground and kicked, nearly catching Jack around the waist before he slipped off again. “Hold still!”

“Scoopin’ up the field mice and boppin’ ‘em on the head!”

“JACK!” 

Bunny lunged again, this time managing to grab Jack’s staff, and nearly gave a triumphant, “Ha!” before realizing Jack was sending them into a spin, and—Crikey, this was going to be just like the sleigh--!

“Frost, don’t you dare!”

Jack just smiled, and the rest was a dizzy, twisted mess of snow, Jack’s laughter, and bitter, biley carrots trying to rush up his esophagus, until Bunny jerked, pulling Jack’s staff with him—

“No, don’t--!” Jack made a useless swipe for it, because they were already falling—

“Gah!” Bunny grunted, jarred as his drop ended with rough, rolling landing in the poor unsuspecting hedges.

Across the way he heard a splash, and then sputtering, and even as brambles threatened to stick him, he could not stop laughing.

Jack pulled himself out of the River of Coloring and glared.

“I look like a rainbow sherbet popsicle!” he yelled, rather pathetically, and--oh, the laughter was worse—

“Cherry freezie!” Bunny wheezed, clutching the staff to his chest.

Jack scowled, ignoring the trickles of orange and pink streaking his face, and stomped his way over just as Bunny managed to stand. “Give me back my staff.” 

“Um, no.”

“Bunny!”

“Naw, mate,” Bunny grinned, twirling the staff in his paws, “It makes a nice walkin’ stick.”

Jack’s eyes flashed with all the wrath of a winter storm as he snarled, “Hand it over!”

“Come and make me, princess.”

Jack smiled, that wonderfully cocky smile; Bunny took off running.

In hindsight, he was probably taking a little too much delight in the feel of the ground beneath his paws, the thrill of the chase, the glee that Jack was chasing after and looked just as excited--

He didn’t notice Jack had somehow managed to slick the grass under his feet until his paws were falling out from under him.

It was not one of his better moments.

“Jack!” he yelped, limbs flailing, and then dug him claws into ice in a vain attempt to stop his slide.

“Hmm, nice form there, Cottontail.” Jack saluted, and then skidded to a graceful halt beside him just as the Pooka hit the thin ice with a crunch. “You done playing Snow Miser?”

Bunny winced as he sat up and glared. “How didja do that?”

Jack smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You were the one that said I was too dependent on the staff. You should be happy I’ve been practicing.” He stooped over him, extending his hand. “Now gimme. I caught you fair and square.”

“Ha!” Bunny scoffed, hiding how secretly pleased he was with Jack’s progress, and tossed him the staff after carefully rising to his feet. 

The instant Jack grabbed it, the wood frosted over with crystalline ferns, the color stains sloughed off in flakes, and he smiled, lighting up his face so brightly Bunny wouldn’t have looked away for the world.

Then Jack crooned triumphantly and flitted in taunting circles around him, completely stealing all of Bunny’s attention because—

Jack was circling his feet.

Bunny closed eyes and shuddered, forcing down the sudden mounting itch like ants crawling under his skin that made him want to pounce.

When he could trust himself to behave, he said, “Ya make it way too hard for a bloke ta give ya a prezzy, mate.”

Jack stopped gloating and leaned on his staff as he gave Bunny an incredulous look. “You want to give me a present.”

“Is that a crime?” Bunny raised a brow at Jack’s perplexed stare. “Look, just take care of your little snow bunny slide and we’ll get ta it.”

“…Did you just put yourself down? Because I could have sworn--”

“Ah, just bite ya bum, and do it, Frost!”

The thin ice dissolved, slipping back into Jack’s staff with a blue mist. Bunny gave him a nod, and the boy shot back an expectant look when the showboating was over.

“I’ve been givin’ it some thought.”

“…And?”

“And,” Bunny paused, crossing his forepaws, “ya attract trouble like fresh laundry attracts cats.”

Jack snorted. 

“I realized that even though I’d given ya the means ta retreat somewhere safe,” he glanced pointedly at the pendant, “ya probably wouldn’t use it in an emergency.”

“Not true. I use it all the time when I’m direly bored.”

“And when ya get attacked by an enemy ya can’t face alone,” Bunny continued as though he hadn’t heard that, “ya need reinforcements.” 

Jack watched as Bunny reached into the leather holster on his back and pulled out something, holding it out to Jack with a confident smile. He looked down at the thing cradled in Bunny’s massive paws. It was incredibly ornate, with beautifully rendered flowers, echoes of Bunny’s markings, jumping rabbits, and Easter eggs carved into dark wood. It was old, the polish tarnished, and he could tell from the look in Bunny’s eyes that it was important. 

“It’s a spoon,” he said helpfully.

“It’s a weapon,” Bunny insisted, his green eyes sparkling. “When the enemy charges ya, ya just pull this out—“

“—And eat his face?” Jack blurted, completely bewildered. 

“What—no!” Bunny glared, flustered. “Don’t be an ass, Jack!—pardon the French.”

“Ass is French?”

“Jack, this is serious!” Bunny growled. “It’s not just a spoon!” He held the bowl end up and tapped a claw against the smooth edge. “When you’re up against someone ya can’t beat alone, ya stab this end inta the ground, and I will come runnin’ no matter what.”

Jack frowned. “And while I’m waiting for you to get there…?”

Bunny’s smile made Jack’s heart seize, and he could not stop the ice bloom burning across his cheeks.

The Pooka grasped the other end of the spoon and twisted. There was a clack, and then there was thin, sleek, green dagger in his paw.

“Then,” Bunny murmured, “ya stab this inta the reason you’re callin’.”

“Wow,” Jack said as Bunny re-sheathed the blade and handed it to him. “And North said you could trust me with this?”

“Why would I need North ta tell me that?”

“You said you hoped North was right about something to do with me.”

“Even if I did, it wouldn’t have been about trust.” Bunny crouched down and waited until those cool blue eyes met his. “I’ve given ya a key ta my home and ta me. I wouldn’t have done it if I thought ya didn’t deserve it. Ya trust me ta take care of you when ya need it.” He touched his paw to the side of Jack’s face, gently flaked off the frost with his thumb, and then whispered, “And I trust you ta take care of me, Jackie.”

Jack couldn’t breathe. His lungs felt full of frozen water, his eyes burned, blurring his sight through thick glass, and his heart fluttered like a bird ready to burst free from his ribcage and take flight. 

Then Bunny pulled away, averting his piercing green eyes, and said, “Don’t ya need ta go terrorize camels with snowballs or somethin’?”

Jack turned, visibly pulling himself together with an effort, and then retorted with a falsely light voice, “That’s penned in for Friday! I’m completely booked, I’ll have you know.”

“Right,” Bunny drawled, “busy as a centipede on a hot plate.” 

Jack rolled his eyes and carefully tucked the gift into his hoodie before rising into the air with his staff. He smiled. “Thanks for the spoon, Boomer.”

“For the last time, Frost, I am not a kangaroo!”

“Are you sure, because I swear—”

“Ten seconds, Frost! Ten! Five! Four--!”

“What did you talk to North about?”

“Three! Two!--!”

“But I just wanna know—“

Jack sighed dramatically and took off as Bunny reached for his boomerang. “Going, going, gone! Catch’cha later, rabbit!”

Bunny snorted and crossed his arms, immensely pleased with himself.

‘A mate must be chased and chase in turn,’ he thought. ‘A mate must accept that which is closest to your heart; only then can they be worthy to accept the rest of you.’

Bunny smiled. 

\--

“North knew about the gift,” Jack muttered to himself, arctic wind whipping through his frosted hair as he neared the man’s workshop. “I heard Bunny say it, and if he’s not going to fess up why, then maybe the big guy will.”

He hovered for a moment as he finally arrived, hesitating at the large open window overlooking the Guardian’s Globe, before letting himself fall to the wood floor.

The mad rush of frolicking, jingling elves and lumbering yetis would have distracted him, if he hadn’t just realized this was he first time he’d set foot here alone since the—well, the hand thing with Bunny.

He didn’t have much time to dwell on it when a huge crackling flash and rumbling boom shook him to his bones.

“What--?!” Jack whirled around, braced for an attack, and nearly stumbled when a stampede of singed, smoldering elves surrounded him, running in frantic, shrieking circles.

“Okay, that’s…different.” He was vaguely tempted to pinch himself, but then just shrugged and flicked his staff, snuffing any remaining flame with frost. 

He nearly lost it when he caught sight of Phil chasing a new screaming batch of flaming elves with blasts from a tiny fire extinguisher.

“Nobody panic!” North’s voice settled over the chaos like a heavy blanket as he burst through the main doors, looking a somewhat singed around the edges himself. “Fire is contained, but workshop accident-free board is back to zero days! Office ice cream party is cancelled!”

The yetis and elves shrieked in unison.

“No!” North glared, gesturing emphatically at the yetis, “You do not get reward for letting elves near fireworks after too much eggnog! I do not care if it was funny! Now start over until you get to five!”

Greg—or maybe it was Calvin?—grunted an obscenity before slashing his furry arm across the “3” written in dry erase marker. 

“I heard that!” North huffed, and then turned to Jack who was watching the drama with a grin.

“Well, y’know, North, that’s not exactly fair.” Jack smirked as he twirled his staff. “They did make it to three.”

“Don’t you start,” North glared, pointing at him irritably, before turning to address their pathetically hopeful audience. “Fine!” He barked over the sudden cheering, “You get one sundae each! But no sprinkles!”

Jack snorted, ducking his head when North gave him the gimlet eye for it.

“Not that I am minding your visit, Jack,” he paused as he raised an inquisitive brow and crossed his tattooed arms over his massive chest, “but what are you doing here?”

“I kinda wanna hear about the fireworks first.”

North snorted and rolled his eyes. “Is about Bunny.”

Jack’s jaw dropped open before he could stop it. “How do you do that?”

“Please, when is not about Bunny?” North smirked as Jack glanced away in embarrassment and then took pity on him. “You did not look worried, so I assumed it was not about believers. Also, Bunny was here four days ago, and now it is you with similar look on face. Not hard to connect the dots.”

“Wait, “similar look”--? What does that mean?”

“Did you get present?”

Jack narrowed his eyes at the misdirection but nodded. “Yeah, he gave me one.”

“Oh, happy day!” North exclaimed, suddenly and rather disproportionately excited, in Jack’s opinion, and clapped his hands in glee. “What did he give you?”

He reached into his hoodie pocket and carefully pulled out his present.

The pause was so awkward it wanted to get up and leave.

“Is spoon,” North said dubiously, and then laughed when Jack clutched it protectively to his chest with a glare.

“Is not just spoon!” Jack countered with an impressively bad Russian accent and then tacked on with a pointed look, “Santa.” 

“How so?”

“It’s a weapon, but I know you know it’s more than that.”

“What did he tell you it was for?”

There was a slight something at the end of that question Jack couldn’t quite identify, almost as if he were asking for something completely different, but Jack humored him anyway.

“He told me to stab this end into the ground when I needed him,” he said, tracing his finger from the bowl up the ornate handle, and then pulled out the fine shimmering blade. “And to stab this into the reason why.”

North rolled his eyes. “Oh, great, he gives you weapon.” Then an odd mix of consternation and concern came over his face, apparently prompting him to add, “Maybe it was good idea.”

“I’m overwhelmed by the staggering confidence here, really.”

The bearded Guardian laughed, gripping Jack’s shoulder for a moment, and smiled when Jack hardly flinched. “I have every confidence in you, Jack Frost.” 

He really did not like the look on Jack’s face, then, like a starving man offered a feast, before it was shuttered behind a mask of cracked ice. 

“Good to know,” he said, attempting a smirk, after a long, considering beat.

North merely smiled complacently and said, “I’m proud of you, son.”

And, oh, that was even worse, the terrified look of man who hears the crack of ice beneath him and falls, knowing that he will drown because he cannot swim. 

The urge to hold Jack to him until that horrible face disappeared was gut-wrenching because no child should ever, ever look like that, but North knew he had already overstepped several boundaries. He did not want to make things even harder than they already were; an angry Bunny was not a fun Bunny to deal with.

But he did not know how long Jack would keep running.

And he did not know if Aster could handle Jack when the weak ice dam around that churning sea finally collapsed.

In the end, he let go of his shoulder and averted his eyes before declaring, “But you think that protection is not the point of the spoon.”

There was a shuddering intake of crackling breath, and then, haltingly, “No, I—I think there’s something else. It’s—It’s not everyday someone just gives me a present.”

“Oh, yes, is your first present,” North began disarmingly before adding, “since you did not like my boots.”

“I’m more of a barefoot kind of guy.”

“You have no style,” North snorted, and then glanced at the spoon for a moment. “I think I know the real purpose.”

Jack finally met his eyes, his expression guardedly hopeful. “I was right?”

“Yes!” He beamed. “I do not know how you could have missed it!” He gestured at Jack and could not stifle his bubbling laughter. “Now you can always be winning when you play the knifey-spoony!”

Jack gave him a dirty look before re-sheathing the blade and storming off, muttering under his breath, “I’ll show him knifey-spoony.”

“I heard that!”

“What’re you going to do, set the Krampus on me?”

“I do not have Krampus! Why do people think I have demon in sleigh that whips naughty children and puts them in sacks?!”

“I dunno, but that sounds like a problem you should take up with the yetis. I had no idea they were so kinky!”

North choked.

“Oh, you should ask Phil. I hear he—“

“JACK!”

The look on North’s face was totally worth being grabbed and thrown out of the workshop by a really skeeved yeti.

He’d just have to work a bit harder to get some answers later.


	4. No One Knows

“Wow, you are so not paying attention.”

Jack blinked and turned to look at Jaime, who was watching him with a rather resigned expression.

Well, that could have been because of the frilly pink sunhat Sophie had forced Jaime to wear, but still.

It’d been three weeks since Jack had last seen Bunny, and he was no closer to figuring out the mystery of the spoon. Jack figured it probably had something to do with the first Easter—maybe it was a reeaalllly ornate dipping spoon—but the dagger? That was hard to explain. Of course, he still didn’t know why Bunny had given it to him for safekeeping, either. He knew from the look in Bunny’s eyes that it was very important, and he knew North knew something, but that left him completely in the dark. 

After weeks of fruitless pondering and wandering on the wind, he’d decided to visit Jaime. At the very least, some mindless fun would clear his head, and an impromptu snowball fight in August sounded like just the thing. Then he’d quickly realized that wasn’t going to happen. As soon as he landed, his feet delicately alit on the roof, he spotted the kids in their backyard and burst out laughing. 

He’d just crashed a tea party.

Little unkempt Sophie was dressed in a green, sparkly princess gown and sitting at a small plastic table with an array of rainbow teacups. Judging by the pointed glare exchanged between mother and son as she left, Jaime was being forced to attend with a frouffy hat as cruel and unusual punishment. 

The look on Jaime’s face set him off again, so hard his sides ached. 

And then Sophie had spotted him and did the worst thing she possibly could—

She invited him to join.

At least, that’s what he thought “Jack tea now!” meant, and it was evil because there was no way Jack could refuse; Bunny would kill him for upsetting his newest favorite lil ankle biter. 

Stupid feelings, making him care. 

So Jack found himself adorned with a blue sparkly headband and sitting in a tiny yellow chair with his crook balanced across his lap at a tiny table surrounded by toys dressed in tea party regalia. Except, of course, that the tea was actually lemonade, which Sophie had already managed to spill on herself three times, but that was just nitpicking.

Thank God no one was there to take pictures.

“What? I was paying attention,” Jack said, giving Jaime his best innocent expression.

“Then what did Sophie say?”

“Mama gave me a blue dress, but I like the yellow one because it’s like a flower, but the green dress is my favorite because it’s sparkly like a real princess.”

“No, she didn’t!” Jaime cried. “How could you possibly get that out of babbling?”

“Dude,” Jack raised his eyebrow and pointed at himself, “Guardian. It’s as good as a Babel Fish.”

“A what?”

“Nevermind,” he mumbled, and then sipped the rest of his lemonade.

“Sophiiieeee,” Jaime whined, slumping over in his tiny chair, “can I please go now? I’m sorry!”

“No,” she said, and then smiled when Jack helped himself to more “tea”.

“But you heard what Mom said!”

“Jack sad,” Sophie insisted, as if that explained everything, and messily sipped her drink.

“Jack isn’t sad,” Jaime retorted. “He’s preoccupied.”

“Jack is right here,” Jack said, “and I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve got that line in between your eyebrows when you think too hard.”

Jack scoffed. “About what?”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Bunny.”

“Bunny!” Sophie squealed. 

Jack recoiled, clutching at his crook with his free hand. “Is there a flashing sign on my forehead or something? How do you people keep doing that?”

“Because it’s always about Bunny.” Jaime sighed and refilled his lemonade. “You’re obsessed.”

“I am not!”

“Are, too! You even have Bunny-faces!”

Jack gave him an incredulous look.

“It’s true. When you do your smirky-eyebrow thing, it’s your “I’m going to make Bunny mad” face. When you’re like this, it’s your “Bunny did something that bothers me” face, like when he banned you from Australia because you’d make the Easter Bilby thing worse.”

He smirked.

“And then it gets even worse when you think nobody is looking because you get that goo-goo eye face.” Jaime wrinkled his nose. “Gross.”

“That,” Jack hissed, “is a pack of lies.”

“No, it’s not! You’re lucky I get it when you’re all,” he paused, clasping his hands to his chest as he sighed in a high-pitch voice, “Bunny is my bestest friend ever!” I mean, he is pretty awesome, like the greatest Easter Bunny ever. I’d hang around him all time, too. It just makes some people get the wrong idea.” He shot a glare at his sibling.

Jack felt unease trickle down his spine like melting ice. 

“D’ya know why I got in trouble?” Jaime huffed, pointing at his sister. “Because she keeps stealing the Jack doll Mom made for me after she stole my bunny, and I wanted him back!”

Jack boggled. Now that he bothered to really look, he wanted to smack himself for not seeing it before. It was just, well, this had never happened to him.

The “Bunny” in question was Jaime’s plush, Jack remembered, the brown bunny he begged for proof of the Easter Bunny those many months ago. He’d been given a makeover, or, maybe it was a makeunder. Jack certainly didn’t think the toy appreciated the cardboard boomerang and felt bandolier or the big angry eyebrows scribbled on its face. ‘And definitely not the yellow dress, either.’ He snickered.

“Jack” looked like he was a peach sock at some point. His hair was a mess of fraying white yarn, his eyes were unevenly glued on blue crystals, his smile was smudged marker, the clothes under the blue dress were the shoddiest stitched pieces of fleece he’d ever seen, his pendant was a brown bead on a piece of elastic, and his staff was made of twisted pipecleaners.

He absolutely loved it. 

His eyes burned, his throat worked, and he couldn’t think of anything to say with so much joy dancing on his tongue because this was better than learning to fly.

“Jack ‘n Bunny mine!” Sophie yelled, grabbing the dolls from their chairs and hugging them.

“No, they’re not!”

“Stay togehva!”

“They don’t need to stay together!”

“Do!” 

“No, they don’t!” Jaime yelled exasperatedly, and then turned to Jack. “D’ya see what I mean?”

Jack blinked quickly, cleared his throat, and then tried to shrug causally as he took a sip of his drink. “Nope.”

Jaime slumped back into his tiny chair and crossed his arms over his chest, pouting. “Fine.” He paused, and then, with an oddly calculating look for a boy his age, said, “What’cha got in your pocket?”

“It’s a gift.” He rolled his eyes at Jaime and Sophie’s expectant looks and let go of his staff to pull the blasted thing out. “Bunny gave it to me.”

“A spoon,” Jaime said dubiously. “He gave you a spoon.”

“Pwesent?” Sophie frowned and then looked at the dolls in her arms.

“Hey, this is a special spoon!” Jack countered, a bit more heatedly than necessary, and tucked it back in his hoodie. “I just don’t know what it means yet.”

“What do you mean, “what it means”?”

“Bunny wouldn’t give me a present just because. Something’s up.”

“Well, you guys are friends, right?” Jaime shrugged. “Maybe he’s just being nice. Even if it is just a spoon.”

Jack opened his mouth to retort when a sudden squeal stole his thunder.

“Pwesent!” Sophie giggled as she grabbed a tiny plastic spoon from the table and held it in plush Bunny’s hand. 

“Um, what’s she doing?” Jack muttered to Jaime, raising an eyebrow.

“Remember why she keeps taking my toys?” the boy asked wryly. 

“Er—”

“G’day, Fwosbye!” she said, in a growly voice, making plush Bunny bounce and “hand” little Jack the spoon. “Pwesent!”

Jack snorted and then took a sip of his drink.

He promptly wished he hadn’t.

“Wuv ya!” she cooed, and then pressed Bunny’s muzzle against little Jack’s lips.

Jack choked, spiting lemonade spectacularly at poor Jaime.

“Ahhhh! Jack, gross!” He squawked, flailing as he bolted up from his chair. “It got in my mouth! Ew! Ewewewew!” 

Jack coughed, flustered, and croaked, “Kiddo, what have you been watching?! Bunny and I don’t do that!”

“Do, too!” She smiled, setting the dolls back in their seats, and lovingly pat them on the head. 

“Why would you even think that?”

Sophie pointed at them and said matter-of-factly, “Mawwied!”

Jack’s heart lurched, torn between a frail wish and the crushing dread of Bunny’s reaction if she ever did this in front of him.

“They’re not married, you dummy!” Jaime jumped in before Jack could recover. “Just because Mom let you watch “Princess Bride” doesn’t mean you can keep marrying people! And you can’t keep stealing Jack because you want to put him with Bunny!”

“Twu wuv!” Sophie chirped, then scowled at her brother.

“No! Jack and Bunny aren’t married; if anything, Jack would get a crush on the Tooth Fairy! She totally likes him!” Jaime turned to Jack, who sat there gaping. “Right?”

“Whoa, whoa, wait—what?!” Jack jerked like a puppet by its strings. “No! Tooth and I aren’t—just, no!”

“Why not? She’s pretty!”

Jack swallowed down the immediate ridiculous impulse to shout that Bunny was just as pretty. “She’s just a friend,” he said instead.

“But she looks at you with girly goo-goo eyes!”

“She looks at my teeth with girly goo-goo eyes!”

“Bwud ‘n gum!” Sophie added, nodding her head, and pointed at the nearby Barbie covered in haphazardly glued blue feathers.

Jack’s eyes widened in horror. 

It wasn’t just Bunny and Jack. He hadn’t bothered to consider the ensemble at all, figuring they were just teddies and dolls, but all the tea party guests in fancy doll dresses were the Guardians. Tooth, a mangled Barbie; North, a Santa Beanie Baby; Sandy, a yellow sparkly cat–-and if Jack and Bunny were “married”, then the other dolls sitting next to the Guardians were…

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Then who’s the Tooth Fairy’s boyfriend? I mean, she’s grown up, so she has one, right?”

“Dentis’ Ken!” Sophie cheered, pointing at tarred and feathered Barbie’s neighbor.

Jack had to bite his lip hard.

“Oh? And who’ve you got with Santa?” Jaime snorted, and shot Jack a look that said, ‘Isn’t this the dumbest thing you’ve ever seen?’ “’Coz I don’t see Mrs. Claus here!”

Sophie huffed, pointing at the small bedazzled Wookiee next to Santa, and said, “D’az Phil!”

Jack nearly broke a rib laughing as ice crystal tears flaked off his face.

“Bigfoot cannot be married to Santa Claus!” Jaime roared, setting Jack off even worse as he fell off his tiny perch, his blue sparkly headband flopping to the ground when he landed in a guffawing heap.

The matchmaker princess was unfazed.

“D’az San’ Man,” she said, patting the yellow cat on the head. “An’ dis Scawy Man,” she said softly, patting the soft black horse.

The implication settled over the sudden harsh silence like a frosted burial shroud.

“Sophie, the Sandman and the Boogeyman can’t get married!” Jaime hissed. “Are you crazy?! They’re enemies!”

“He sad!”

“He deserves to be sad! He tried to hurt us!”

Even the mere mention of Pitch snuffed Jack’s laughter with a wave of icy rage, a rush so powerful it sent frost crackling across his crook and crystalline veins over his flesh like diamond armor. He rose and the cold crawled from him, tendrils freezing the grass under his feet in crunching white as hatred burned in him like poison.

Then he shuddered, reason slamming into him as his second skin shattered.

‘You are breaking,’ a voice whispered, a dark, delighted thing from the cloying depths of his nightmares.

Jack had never been more terrified.

He scrambled for control, all the while praying that nothing had happened to the kids, and that this wouldn’t sway their belief in him—no matter how much he didn’t deserve it. 

Jaime and Sophie were quiet, wide-eyed and trembling, just like his sister had been—

‘Jack! Jack, I’m scared!’

It gutted him, almost more than not even knowing her name.

“I’m sorry,” he said, aiming for a reassuring smile. “I just haven’t been feeling well. Summer heat, y’know? Got a bit of a bug, I guess.”

The silence was worse than the fear.

“Well, miscreants, it’s been great,” he said cheerfully as he clutched his staff. “But I gotta go.”

“Are—Are you okay, Jack?” Jaime whispered. “You looked really mad.”

“I’m fine, Jaime. Sorry I scared you—both of you. I should go now.”

“Jack—“

“Catch’ya later.” Jack leapt into the air and disappeared in a flash of light and snow before Jaime could even try to stop him.

He shook his head and frowned. “There’s something really wrong with him, bigger than Bunny.”

Sophie bit her lip, staring at the black pony with tearful eyes, and whimpered. “Jack mad?”

“No, Jack’s just…um…sick, and I don’t think he really likes the Boogeyman.”

She sniffled, bottom lip trembling as she picked the pony up and hid him under the table. “Jack better now?” 

“Oh, Sophie, Jack—er—Jack needs to get medicine from Bunny, and then he’ll be okay, don’t you worry.”

She just stared at the table miserably, tears dripping down her cheeks. 

“M’fault!” she blubbered suddenly, the precursor of a horrible wail, and Jaime absolutely did not want that to happen; the hat was bad enough punishment, and his mother would blame him for this in a heartbeat. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said gently, holding her hand for a moment—‘Please let no one be taking pictures,’ he begged silently—“It wasn’t your fault. How about we think of a way to make Jack better instead of crying, hmm? Make him happy?”

Sophie sniffled loudly, shoulders shaking with stifled sobs.

“We haven’t lost any teeth yet, so how about we leave a letter for the Sandman?” he asked, grinning. “He’d know what to do, right?”

“Nev’r see’d ‘im.”

He frowned thoughtfully. Sandy didn’t really need to enter houses to make people sleep, that was true, so…how would he get it?

“We’ll put it on Abby’s collar,” he said suddenly in a stroke of brilliance. “He can just use his magic on us, but I bet it’s different for animals! And she’s always been a rough sleeper. We’ll make the letter nice and pretty with glitter just in case, okay?” 

“’Kay,” she said softly.

Jaime sighed and readjusted his frilly pink hat.

He was going to have some words with Jack about this later.

“Well, we can’t have a party without all our guests,” he started primly in the worst British accent he could muster, drawing his sister’s attention, “and I can hardly talk to you if you’re under the table, Mr. Boogeyman! Come out and have some tea!”

Sophie gave him a watery smile and reached for the horse. “Sit in chair?”

“Of course! Sandy looks lonely, doesn’t he?”

She nodded and carefully set the pony back in its seat.

“Better!” he said, and prepared himself to speak utter blasphemy. “Now, do tell us, Mr. Boogeyman, how long have you been married? And what ever do you do with all that sand? Must be itchy, I dare say.”

“Itchy!” she giggled and clapped her hands.  
\--

Sometimes, the sky needed more fish.

Sandy smiled as a school of gold fancy guppies darted and swayed in the starlight current, en route to their little Dreamer.

‘Yes, much better,’ he thought.

The night was aglow with streams of golden sand, twisting and dancing in playful arcs to music as silent as his laughter. But his job was not yet done. There was one more Dreamer left in Burgess, a very special Dreamer that he was always happy to bless with wonderfully sweet dreams.

He conjured a large bright cricket and hopped from swirl to swirl until landing with a flourish on the Bennett’s porch. He passed through the door with ease, glowing like a candle against the darkness of the living room, until he found the restless Dreamer waiting on the couch.

Abby was such a good dog.

Sandy grinned, petting her head as glittering sand charmed her to sleep, and bit his lip in anticipation.

A sparkling bunny formed above her head; it shrieked like a girl and bolted to and fro while a greyhound chased it in glee. 

He giggled, a whisper of shifting sand and light. 

Then he turned to leave and stopped, perplexed, when a faint glimmer caught his eye.

Sandy frowned, a question mark curling over his head, as his sand retrieved a piece of paper from behind the slumbering dog. He tilted his head, curious, and blinked when the messy gold and silver glitter spelled his name.

No one had ever written him a letter before. Why would they need to? 

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and turned the note over in his small hands. Hmm, what would a child ask him? He shrugged and opened the crudely folded thing with a smile. Maybe it was a thank you.

Within the reading the first few words, a haggard exclamation point jumped to life above his head, and he fled on the back of a golden dragon.

An hour roared by before he’d had a stroke of luck.

Spots of blue and green, darting like tiny hummingbirds, grabbed his attention as he passed over Louisville. He dropped in a frantic gush of sand, cornering Tooth as she passed through a high-rise apartment window. Her flock of Baby Tooths screeched in surprise as they nearly dropped their catch.

“Sandy!” Tooth cried as she hovered erratically, her plumage flaring like a ruffled bird of paradise. “What’s wrong? Did something happen? Did someone forget to floss?!”

Sandy shook his head, his golden hair scattering bits of sand. Then he gestured wildly, spinning images faster than Tooth could understand.

“It’s a jackal! Purple Hodag! Gingivitis! Narwhal dentures! You’ve got a cavity! The Groundhog died! Bunny needs braces!”

He looked at her.

“I’m terrible at Pictionary!” she wailed, clasping her hands to her chest. 

Sandy snorted soundlessly, rolling his eyes at himself, and handed her the note. 

The mad buzzing of her fairy wings quieted as she glanced at it with a grin.

“Oh, someone wrote you a thank you? That’s adorable!”

He huffed silently, pointed at the note, and conjured Jack’s silhouette.

“Jack wrote you a note in glitter? No fair!”

The Baby Tooths chirruped in delight, dreamy warbles lilting through the air. Maybe Jack would write one for them with glittery hearts and everything! Oh, his teeth were just so pretty!

Sandy smacked his forehead.

“Then what?” She pouted, opening the note, and started reading the messy print; her face fell abruptly. “Do you know what happened? Where did he go? Do you think he’s in danger?”

Sandy shook his head, though for which question she couldn’t say.

“I’m going to find him,” she said, straightening her shoulders, and turned toward her hovering flock. “Girls, I need you to keep going! Take everything directly back to the palace.”

The Baby Tooths chirped with a nod and scattered.

“You get back to work, too, then, Sandy,” Tooth paused, “unless you want to tell Bunny and North?”

Sandy patted his chest, specks of sand falling from his golden rippled suit, and then shooed her away.

“Right, okay, got it. Thanks!” she blurted, and then sped off into the night.

He wasn’t quite sure how she knew where she was going, but then he supposed it didn’t matter. His job was done. Jack would dream of lost memories tonight, but Bunny would give him new ones. North had already seen to that. It just was up to Jack to accept them.

And Sandy could be especially persuasive if the boy decided to be difficult.

In the meantime, the sky needed more dinosaurs.

\--

Tooth found Jack just as twilight whispered along the tree line. He’d fled to the Northwest, hiding deep within a massive forest. Navigating her way through the tangled webs of dark branches and thick underbrush had been an ordeal for her deceptively delicate train, and her wings ached from slicing through so much jagged bark. The sudden glitter of snow and ice in the faint moonlight was a relief. If it hadn’t been for the faint trace of Bunny’s magic guiding her as he ran, Jack would have stayed hidden. Where once she was more than a little miffed that Bunny hadn’t extended the same courtesy of warren keys to the other Guardians, now she was deeply grateful. 

She was also very, very worried.

The ice was wrong. At the best of times, Jack’s snow was a soft blanket of pure white; his frost unfurled like beautiful crystal vines, and his ice was smooth and cool as glass. These were jagged spikes of dark, splintering ice, the kind she’d only seen when Jack was attacked.

And Jack’s enemy, for all she knew, was himself.

Tooth flitted cautiously through the haphazard thorns until she found a cave of gnarled ice wedged between the trunks of two towering pines. She ventured inside, and curled there in the back of the icy hollow was her Jack.

She warbled softly and gently touched the ground. It felt strange to her feathered feet, but her comfort didn’t matter here. Eventually she kneeled in front of him, a rare thing, and briefly admired the tiny crystals she could see in Jack’s hair.

“Jack,” Tooth whispered, “what happened?”

She reached out, a fleeting touch to his arm, and he flinched violently; a flurry of snowflakes clung to her vibrant crest and beaded lashes.

“Oh, don’t you even start that,” she scolded lightly and waved the note she carried at his bowed head. “You gave the kids a real scare, y’know.”

He said nothing.

“And I find it hard to believe it was just because Sophie invited a Pitch pony to a tea party.”

Jack’s fists tightened around his alarmingly frozen crook.

Tooth chirped in distress, “I spent all night looking for you, Jack! The least you could do is tell me what’s going on.”

The tension was palpable as she waited, half-expecting her legs to go numb.

Then he glanced up and spoke with a voice like wind rattling frozen boughs, “How old are you, Tooth?”

She blinked, her exotic lashes fluttering, and then tilted her head thoughtfully. “I’ve ruled the Memory Palace for a thousand years, but I was alive sometime before that.”

Jack looked astounded.

Tooth grinned, expecting an old lady crack with teasing smirk.

“And…do you still remember everything?”

Her face fell, and she sighed sadly. “Yes, though sometimes I wish I didn’t. We all have pasts, Jack.”

“Do you get names with yours?”

Tooth was nearly breathless at the pain in his eyes.

“Because I don’t,” he choked, as though the words cut his throat. “I get “sister” and “mother” and all the feelings in that last moment before I—before I died, and that’s it. I only knew my name because the Moon let me keep it.”

“Jack, it’s not your fault,” she said softly. “You didn’t know that accessing your memory without my help might damage the rest, and I don’t like to think of the alternative if that one memory hadn’t helped you. The sacrifice was worth it, Jack.” 

“And what’s going to help me now, hmm? What’s going to tell me my favorite color? My favorite food? My dreams? My life? What’s going to tell me what my parents sounded like, or what it felt like when they held me?”

“Jack—“

“And what’s going to help me now when I look back and remember how happy I was to know why I’m here—only to realize that I was dead, and that I was three hundred years too late for family because mine was wormfood in the ground?!” he raged, slamming a fist against the ice, fracturing it. “That when I was running around making snowmen and getting the cold shoulder from all of you, they were right in front of me, and I didn’t even know?!”

His breath hitched, and his eyes stabbed daggers into her heart. 

“I will never get closure,” Jack rasped, biting the words. “You get names, you get history, you get love and acceptance; I get to be the living embodiment of what killed me until the day I fade because the Moon took me and froze me for a team that didn’t even want me. You will never understand how I feel.”

Tooth jerked like her train had been plucked and made a low, injured sound. She forgot, sometimes, how young Jack was, how isolated, and how much pain could twist words into selfish barbs. Had he truly felt comfortable with them and shared stories with them, he’d have known better than to make such ignorant assumptions to someone who’d watched her parents be murdered because she was different. And only someone so emotionally young would assume that the Guardian who’d been made a queen without any warning and given a job to do alone for centuries as the very last of her kind wouldn’t understand his kind of pain.

“That might be true,” she said, gathering her thoughts. “I can’t understand everything because I’m not you, Jack. I don’t know what goes on inside your head because you won’t talk to me or anyone else. But you’re wrong to assume that none of us have had to deal with loss and pain. We’ve all lost someone, Jack. It comes with the territory.”

Tooth recognized the look on his face before he turned away. He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want platitudes. He didn’t want excuses and reasons. And he certainly wouldn’t listen to her story right now. He was hurt, he was angry, and he didn’t care if he was being selfish because he was the one who’d had his identity taken and no one cared. She just thought he should be grateful for second chances and his gift and disregard everything that had happened before.

In some ways, he was right to think that.

Tooth had learned long ago that resentment wasn’t worth carrying, especially for an immortal. It fixed nothing. Mortals died. Children would stop believing; parents would say she never exited. History would remember her as a quaint little fairytale. The truth about her past had already eroded like so much grave dust, and no one cared. Once the Moon chose her, it couldn’t be undone. But she persevered. She embraced her gift, brought joy to more children and enchantment to her fairytale. She made the best out of her destiny because she knew there was no going back. Though she could keep her name, she would never be the same person she was before. 

Jack was not ready to accept that. No matter how much he excelled in his new Guardianship duties, no matter how much he embraced his powers, Jack couldn’t stop trying to go backwards. To him, his stolen humanity was a symbol of his injustice; his memories were supposed to be vindication for years of suffering victimized and incomplete. 

Jack did not seem to understand that the old Jack was dead; everyone who knew that Jack was dead; everyone who loved that Jack was dead; and that his disregard for his new life, his profoundly disturbing ungratefulness for being alive, was pushing away the new family who’d gladly give him the vindication he deserved.

Tooth wondered what good the Moon thought it would do Jack to endure the path He’d set him on. More than once, she realized how very close Jack skirted the edge of darkness and shuddered to think how devastating it would have been had he followed in Pitch’s footsteps. It was a testament to Jack’s character and the Moon’s judgment that he did not. But this situation was no less harrowing. Without any intervention, the powerful Guardian Jack could become would die unborn, and he wasn’t open to her help at all.

“If you won’t talk to me,” she said at last, “would’ya at least talk to Bunny?” 

Once, she’d felt more than a little jealous at the connection the two seemed to have, but anything that helped Jack get through this was a blessing in disguise. She just had to remember to mention this to Bunny and get him to cooperate. Jack’s recovery was more important than any strife they still had in their relationship.

Which reminded her of her whole reason for being here, and she smiled wryly. 

“You might as well, since you’re going to be in a lot of trouble anyway!”

She waited until he met her eyes and then held up the note with a grin.

Jack cringed. “Oh, no, what does it say?”

Tooth cleared her throat dramatically as she opened it. “Dear Sandman, can you please check on Jack? He got really mad when my sister brought a Boogeyman pony to her tea party, and he left saying he was sick. He made ice all over his skin and it looked like he was going to attack someone but we were the only ones there. It was really scary, and he made Sophie cry—“

Jack groaned. Bunny was going to gut him with his fancy spoon.

She refolded the note and the concern in her purple eyes was overwhelming. “Are you losing control of your powers, Jack?”

“I’m fine. It was an accident.”

The tightness around his eyes and mouth told her something more was going on here than existential angst, but she had no idea what it could be. 

“How do you accidentally try to deep freeze a stuffed pony?”

“Not very well, obviously.”

Tooth huffed. He was starting to get that cocky smirk back. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing and settled for prying his mouth open in retaliation.

“Oh, look how pretty they are!” she squealed, poking at an incisor. “How do you get them so shiny? Now if you’d only just remember to brush your teeth! Is that lemonade I smell? Do you know how much sugar is in that? What happened to it being a tea party?”

“Geh ur anns ou my mouff!”

She released him with a disappointed sigh, only to pull him into a gentle hug. Jack stiffened, but then hesitantly patted her on shoulder, which made her smile. She could really count the ice crystals in his hair now, and—

Jack yelped as Tooth grabbed his shoulders and pushed him backward, staring at him with wide eyes.

“When did that happen?!” she squawked, her plumage flaring as her wings beat wildly.

Jack felt his eyebrows crawl up his forehead. “Um, what?”

“You and Bunny!”

“Me and Bunny, what?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?! Congratulations!” Tooth squealed, practically throwing herself at him in a crushing hug. “It makes so much sense now! Oh, this is so exciting! I won’t even hold you not telling me against you because you’re both such frowny-brownies and it’s adorable! You have to let me help you guys celebrate!”

Jack panicked like he had an armful of spastic kitten. 

She just held him tighter.

“We have so much planning to do! Oh, I have to help you pick out the flowers, and the music, and the food—Oh, and the dances! North has to bring his camera! It’s going to be so beautiful!”

“Er, Tooth—“

“Did you pick a date yet? Should we have it in the warren? Oh, no, Paris! No, wait, Hawaii! No, wait, we need snow—Alaska!”

“Tooth!” Jack said sharply as he dislodged her arms from his middle, his face frosted in embarrassment and more than a little bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

“Bunny gave you his…” she paused, her smile faltering as she took in Jack’s confusion. Her stomach knotted.

He didn’t know about the scent. He didn’t know Bunny had marked him as a mate. How could he not know Bunny had marked him as a mate?!

‘Oh, plaque!’ she cursed.

“Um…” Tooth’s mind darted from excuse to excuse like a hummingbird seeking nectar, and she stuttered. 

“His spoon-thing?” Jack offered, pulling the spoon out of his hoodie pocket. 

“Yes, thank you! The spoon! I’m so glad you got the spoon!”

“Uh-huh. And it calls for a celebration because…?”

She froze, managing to stop the words “courting gift” and “lovespoon” from diving off her tongue. “Y’know, you should ask Bunny when you talk to him! That sounds like a great idea to me!”

He frowned, narrowing his eyes. “You didn’t know about the spoon. Something else is going on here. What’s Bunny planning?”

“Easter.”

“Ha-ha! You’re hilarious. Now tell me the truth. What do you know?”

“Did you know that penguins can drink salt water because the salt comes out of their nostrils as mucus?”

“Wow. Um—no.”

“Great!” she cheered as she took to the air. “So, you go talk to Bunny about everything and be sure to make it up to the kids, ‘kay?”

“No, not ‘kay! What’s really going on with Bunny? I know you know!”

“I don’t know anything! I was clearly driven temporarily insane by the sight of your perfect premolars.”

“Why did he give me a spoon?”

“Why does it matter?” 

“Because this thing is too special for him to just give to me, okay?” Jack sighed in frustration. “I know you know why he gave it to me, and I don’t understand why no one will tell me!”

Tooth frowned. “I don’t get why you think it’s so strange. Bunny is your friend, right?”

“Yes, but this is—this is just different!”

She paused, then asked carefully, “You like him?”

Tooth had to admit, if anyone else were watching Jack, she didn’t think they’d notice the way he hid the sudden tension in his shoulders with a shrug and avoided her eyes by rolling his dramatically. 

Maybe this wasn’t quite as one-sided as she thought.

Tooth smiled mischievously. “I wouldn’t blame you for giving in after being rivals for so long. He’s a great guy once he likes you. It doesn’t hurt that he’s also really tall, and strong, and warm, and, oh, that voice still makes my lovebirds flutter!”

The look on Jack’s face was a horrid mask of disgust, complete with fake gagging, but she could see the jealousy lurking in his hard, flat eyes.

She nearly laughed and wondered if she could sneak her way into the warren when Bunny inevitably confessed. The fireworks would be spectacular. It’d make her year, for sure. 

“But, then again,” she said, “I’ve known him a lot longer than you, and he’s never given me a fancy spoon. So, it can only mean one thing!”

It was hilarious how quickly Jack perked up.

“He wants you to help him make the chocolate goodies!”

Jack glared and snapped, “You’re as bad as North! No, wait, you’re actually worse, because I know you know the truth, which sounds like it’s something completely crazy, and I’m only reasonably sure he does!”

“I told you, I don’t know anything.”

Jack snorted. “You are so bad at lying.”

“—down on the job!” Tooth cut in. “You’re absolutely right! I think I’ve dallied here long enough! You get a good nap and go talk to Bunny, mister! I’ll be checking to see if you did! And don’t forget to clean up your winter wonderland!”

“Tooth—“

“Bye, Jack!” She crooned and then bolted, flittering up past the gnarled branches to the clear morning sky beyond them.

Jack huffed and rolled his eyes. “Fairies.”

\--


	5. Paths Untaken

There was a time, many centuries ago, when Bunnymund had entertained the idea of Tooth as a potential mate. It wasn’t that surprising, really. He liked her well enough. She was nice, she was exotically beautiful, her voice was glorious when she sang, and, quite frankly, she was a she. But then he began to contemplate uncomfortable questions about physiology and behavior, and that quickly killed the idea.

For one thing, Tooth was essentially a bird. The species gap was huge, and he highly doubted they were compatible unless by an Act of Moon. And if that “blessing” was bestowed upon them, he really doubted Disney genetics were applicable to Guardians. Even the thought of bird-rabbit monsters hatching from eggs was more than a little horrifying. 

For another, her face was clearly made for kissing; Bunny’s was not. If, by chance, she did practice that behavior, Bunny would have to reciprocate like a good cooperative mate. And that meant that every time Bunny wanted to be intimate, he’d have to endure her tongue shoved in his mouth, which meant that she’d be using it to poke and prod at his teeth, which meant that she’d interrupt every romantic moment they’d have to berate him about his dental care.

And that wasn’t even considering the fact that she probably mated like a hummingbird, and that was just not on.

To this day, the phrase “cloacal kiss” made his stomach turn. 

He had no such reservations with Jack as his choice. The species issue was still a concern, yes, kissing was problematic, and when they crossed that bridge, they’d have to discuss sex for obvious reasons. But the thought didn’t make him cringe as it would have with Tooth. He was eager and excited to get to that point, though he was mildly worried at what Jack’s frost abilities might do mid-coitus. But unlike Tooth, if her hummingbird roots ran that deep, at least Jack wouldn’t merrily flit off after a few seconds of mating—not that he physically could once Bunny was through with him—and he’d exercise Bunny’s thus far neglected stamina more so than the aforementioned busybody anyway. No matter how much he looked like a rabbit, Bunny was a Pooka, and it took his species a helluva lot more than thirty seconds to get the job done.

‘Definitely do not want to think about that right now,’ Bunny thought, derailing that train with a swift mental kick, and stared at his book, trying once again to focus on new flower he’d discovered in the Wet Tropics.

It was an orchid, that, he’d gleefully noted in his field journal, but that was about how far he’d gotten. The color was vaguely reminiscent of the Blue Lady Orchid’s, but ‘blue’ just didn’t quite describe it. He’d smiled, accepting the challenge of naming a new color, and sketched the petal shapes, marveling at the lacelike texture. His mind mulled over new egg designs, and he stoutly ignored the small voice insisting how very frostlike the beauty was—

“It’s not working!” he snarled, throwing the book to the ground, and paced in the darkness of the Warren. “And I can’t even sleep!”

He’d had a niggling feeling, a gnawing at his gut since the early morning, but he’d been determined to not let it ruin his flower hunting expedition. It’d worked most of the day until a jumble of rage, sorrow, and panic crashed into him, and his world narrowed to the bright, shrill scream of a winter wind.

It’d passed as quickly as it bowled him over; shaken, Bunny retreated to the Warren. He figured it had to be Jack’s emotions that throttled him, and the idea that Jack was in trouble grated on his mind. He knew Jack hadn’t summoned him, which set him on edge. What if he was hurt? Unconscious? Kidnapped? He knew he was still alive, he could feel that, but what good was the blasted spoon if he didn’t or couldn’t use it? 

And even with the signature of Easter’s magic on his person, he still couldn’t pinpoint Jack’s bloody location! Every time he reached out, following the green thread, he hit a thick, inky veil he couldn’t punch through. 

He near about went mad with worry, a hair’s breadth away from running to North and pulling the damn Aurora Borealis lever himself, when he felt Tooth. It was a strange, annoying thing, like she was running her fingers along the back of his eyeball, and he realized she was tracing the unwound clew back to Jack. 

Relief had just started seeping into his bones when the truth struck him across the face: Tooth had done what he couldn’t because Jack didn’t want him to find him. Jack wanted Tooth, not him. He wanted Tooth. The thought rang with a crippling, piercing death knell, and it hurt, a searing pain that cut through his heart, ignited his blood, and curdled into jealousy, sharp as a bee sting. 

Tooth had always liked Jack; Jack never discouraged her little crush. Maybe Jack wasn’t so picky about feathered fornicating and midair foreplay!

Bunny had taken a deep breath and flexed his paws, ignoring the bite where his claws had punctured the flesh. 

“You gotta be rational ‘bout this, Aster. Frostbite is hardly in a state to accept that kind of physical affection, and Tooth won’t make a move with your mark on him. She’s better than that. You just gotta wait ‘til Jack comes to you and explains what set him off.”

That wait had left him with this productive little mental walkabout in the first place. Hours later, he’d covered the sad romantic non-history of his long life, weeded his personal garden, made sure Jack’s second gift was ready to go a hundred times over, and he still didn’t have a name for that flower’s color.

His jangling, ragged nerves were instantly soothed when he felt Jack arrive. 

Worry stabbed him like cold steel when he saw how terrible he looked.

Distantly, he realized it was now nighttime in the Warren and that Jack, assuming he’d kept with his US-lurking habits, had probably just left in the early morning wherever he was. That certainly explained his unnatural pallor, even for him, the slow, half-alert way he moved, and the bags under his red eyes. 

Jack must have read his expression because he gave him a small smile and said, “Used my powers too much. Wasn’t expecting it to be so draining.”

That did not reassure Bunny at all.

“What happened, mate? First, I get jolted out of my bed at the crack of dawn by a stab of anger, then I get punched in the gut with a whole mess of bad emotions around noon, and I look frantically for you the whole day until you show up here half-dead!”

Jack looked away from him guiltily and then said, sounding rather off, “The spoon lets you feel all that?”

The distance felt like hooks tearing at his skin, and he couldn’t stop himself from pulling Jack into a hug. He felt him relax for a moment against his chest before he tensed, as though catching himself enjoying something he shouldn’t. Bunny stroked his back until the tension faded and he felt a cool hand gingerly alight on his lower back.

“I think the real question here is what made you feel that way?”

Jack jerked his hand back, gripped his staff tighter, but he didn’t move out of his embrace. Instead, he pressed his chilled forehead against his fur and whispered, the words soft and cold as new-fallen snow, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I think we should, Jackie. I’m no expert on time zones, but by my figurin’ somethin’s haunted you since, what, yesterday afternoon for you?”

There was a pause, heavy and considering, and Bunny stared helplessly at the crown of Jack’s frosted head.

‘Talk to me,’ he thought. ‘I’d give you anything, if you’d only ask it of me.’

“What’s the spoon for, Bunny?” Jack murmured finally. “Why’s it special? Why give it to me?”

Bunny sighed, considered his options, and settled on a choice that was both a necessary and difficult one. Jack was not ready for the real answer, but he could give him one that was just as important.

“C’mon, Frost. Let’s head inside, and I’ll tell ya.”

\--

‘With a touch of luck, he’ll fall asleep before long,’ Bunny thought as Jack slumped down in a padded chair, propped his staff against the wall, and drummed his fingers against the kitchen table.

“Y’know,” Jack drawled with a tired smile, “it never ceases to amuse me that you have a cabin tucked away in here.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t always. Some Guardian thought to put it in the other ones’ heads that we ought to have visitation days, and here I was without proper accommodations.”

“It’s nice,” he said softly, and it was true. 

Bunny’s “accommodation” was mix of fine stonework, woodwork, and plant life that sprawled into a large earth house. The architecture curved like tree roots, as natural as could be, the furniture, from what he could tell, all looked handcrafted, the windows were stained glass Easter images, the light fixtures were scores of glowing flowers and fungi, and he wondered from the various textiles if Bunny wasn’t some closet knitter. The thought made him smile, and he wondered if that was the secret to this place. Bunny’s home felt lived in; more importantly, it felt very Bunny, and the living room, with its constant warmth and ticking clocks, comforting as a steady heartbeat, would always be his favorite. 

Bunny took his seat across from Jack and held out his paw.

Jack stared at it.

“The spoon, Jack?”

He blinked and fished it out of his pocket.

“Y’know, you’re askin’ a lot of questions.” He smirked and added just as the wood touched his fur, “If you don’t want it, you can give it back.”

The spoon was jerked back so quickly and clutched to Jack’s chest, Bunny nearly laughed.

“No.” Jack glared.

“Fine, fine.” Bunny smiled, folding his paws on the table. “Fire away, then.”

Jack set it carefully between them on the tabletop and kept a hand near it just in case, huffing at Bunny’s tolerant look. “So, what is it? And don’t you dare say it’s a spoon! I will slug you in the face, rabbit, so help me!”

Bunny rolled his eyes and then nodded at it pointedly. “It’s the first gift I received as a Guardian.”

“Wait, so North gave you this?! That lying—!“

“Frostbite, shut up a tic and let me talk!” He waited until Jack simmered down with a sour look on his face. “That was given to me by a child, Jack. Not the knife part, that was somethin’ I added later, but the spoon was the first of its kind. It’s Welsh, 1548, from a small settlement that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Jack was gobsmacked. “Fifteen-hundred--? Bunny, you can’t give this to me!”

“Can and did, Jack. And I’m glad to because it symbolizes somethin’ you haven’t embraced yet.”

His confusion was palpable.

“Your belief system, Jack. Your safety net.” 

“What are you talking about?”

Bunny gave him a look. “Haven’t you ever wondered, Jack, how people across cultures could know your name when they could never see or hear ya? How you could be included in a popular song from the 1940s? How you could exist as Old Man Winter and the Jokul Frosti in the first centuries of the current era long before you were ever made?”

The dismayed look on Jack’s face made Bunny’s heart sink. The Moon really had told him nothing.

“Oh, this is goin’ to be unpleasant,” Bunny groaned, running his paw across his face. “Did anyone tell you anythin’ about how the Moon operates?”

Jack’s face went cold and he bit out tightly, “No.” 

The Pooka squared his shoulders, his voice sober and weary, “All right, then. I’ll tell ya. But, I’ll ask you not to interrupt if you can help it. This is hard enough to talk about as it is.” He cleared throat. “The Moon creates Guardians to protect childhood, which is all well and good, but, in the beginning, people had no inclination to believe. There was no precedent. So, the Moon tapped into somethin’ humans have, a collective unconscious. It’s why all humans clutch to the idea of being heroes, being wealthy, fightin’ monsters, etcetera, and how the ancient cultures with no communication whatsoever and different sets of morals to enforce can have very similar fairytales.

“The Moon encouraged the belief in spirits, in us, and gave ‘em a mythology ta follow. Me, for instance, bunnies have nothin’ to do with eggs unless you understand how people back then saw things. The Moon gave ‘em the inclination that eggs ‘n bunnies were associated with rebirth, and then they ran with it when their religions developed. Without that, I couldn’t exist, Jack. None of us could.”

“Wait, but, when did all this happen?” He boggled. “You said this—this was in the beginning. When-When was this?”

Bunny’s face fell, and it scared Jack how old he suddenly looked.

“Well, Frostbite, through reasons I don’t really want to get into now, the Man in the Moon n’ Pitch got here ‘round,” he paused, shifting uncomfortably, “50,000 years ago—“

Jack could not stop his jaw from dropping.

“—when humans behaved more like they do now. Sandy came sometime after that.”

“Tooth said she was a thousand years old,” Jack said breathlessly.

“Yeah, that’s about right. Tooth fairy myths started croppin’ up ‘bout 8th century or so.” 

“What about you? What about North?”

“North is more like your story. The idea of Santa Claus started with bits of Odin, Sinterklaas, n’ Saint Nicholas from ‘round the 4th century. North, himself, was a Cossack from 1350 or so until he became a Guardian and built the North Pole Workshop about 600 years ago.” He cleared his throat again. “Meself, that’s a touch more complicated.”

The silence made Jack’s skin crawl. 

“How old are you, Bunny?” he whispered, perturbed. “To know all this, remember all this…”

“If you’re askin’ about my memory,” Bunny started gruffly, avoiding Jack’s eyes, “that goes back to makin’ the continents.”

Jack’s eyes widened and he sat back in his chair. “That’s…”

“175.”

Jack felt his heart stutter. “Thousand?”

“Million years.”

Bunny risked a glance, and the sheer horror and grief on Jack’s face overwhelmed his protective instincts. He reached forward, taking Jack’s alarmingly ice-cold hand in his paws. “You all right, Frostbite?”

Jack couldn’t move; he could barely even breathe. Bunny was—Bunny was ancient, older than the first Guardian, and—and he was supposed to tell him about the pain he’d suffered for a mere three hundred years? He was supposed to tell him he loved him, now, when Bunny was so beyond him? Bunny was literally prehistoric—and Jack, Jack was an insignificant speck in the sands of time. He was nothing, and he could offer nothing to someone like that. Bunny could and never would want him.

‘So this is what it feels like,’ he thought numbly, ‘when your last bit of hope dies.’

Bunny was not at all prepared for the agony that ripped through him then, his Guardian instincts screaming in white, gibbering, mindless fear, and he could not stop himself from roaring, “Stop whatever the hell it is you’re thinking, Frost, because it’s a load of bullshite!”

Glorious silence and sanity resumed, and Bunny shook his head, clearing it of that horrid ringing, before he pinned Jack with his eyes and tightened his grip on his hand. The pathetic, defeated look on Jack’s face was the only thing that kept him from tearing his head off for going off the deep end.

“As I was sayin’, Jack, my memory goes back that far, ‘cause my people go back that far. But I didn’t exist ‘til ‘bout 5,000 years ago, which doesn’t even matter, because that time moved differently, and I wasn’t here ‘til the Dark Ages. I wasn’t even a Guardian ‘til the late 15th century.”

“What?” Jack whispered, shaking his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bunny sighed. “And it’s not gonna make any sense tonight, ‘cause I’m not dredgin’ that up. Not now.

“The point here, Jack, is that I didn’t exist as the Easter Bunny everywhere overnight. I had to follow the trail of suggestion. Europe was my nest egg, and I wasn’t even publicized as the “Easter Hare” until the mid 1600s. I had to wait for that tale to spread. I spent the majority of the 1700s in Australia with the transplanted settlers, and they repaid me in ’91 with that bilby nonsense. I didn’t even come to America until the 1800s—incidentally, just when “Jack Frost” started gettin’ thrown around—and a bit after that, I was a global thing.”

He let go of his hand to pick up the spoon and idly glance over it before handing it back to Jack, watching him pocket it.

“You didn’t know about any of this, so you couldn’t have known that while the Americans considered you little more than a figure of speech, across the world, people were very inclined to believe in a frost spirit. You also didn’t have the benefit of leaving a gift behind, even though that comes as a price to us now, and I’m very sorry for that, Jack. You shouldn’t have been left alone, especially in the dark like that.”

Jack ducked his head and muttered, after a moment, “A price?”

Bunny shrugged. “Parents wouldn’t let their kids keep strange presents or chocolates, so part of the Moon’s process is to convince ‘em that they’re behind it. Eventually, they bring it upon themselves to actually do it, and, well, suddenly your candy has barcodes, your presents come in UPS packaging, and that’s the end of it. Flipside, o’course, is that these parents also produce and buy the merchandise that propagate our legends. The believers that we lose eventually help the next generation believe. Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, we get all those lights because we’re icons, Jack. Now, we just gotta get you there, even if science is against ya.”

“How?”

Bunny smiled, grabbed a wrapped present hidden on the chair beside him, and set it in front of Jack. “Open it.”

Jack stared at the box as though it would bite his hands off, then made quick work of the hideous Easter wrapping paper. He frowned. Inside was a set of blue packages with writing on the sides, and a clear, crinkly bag with colorful foil-wrapped candy. He grabbed one of the packages and froze once he realized what it was.

“Jack Frost Peeps with collector trading cards,” Bunny said. “And snowflake chocolates, snowflake mints, and a caramel version of your staff. Didn’t figure you’d like the eggs.” 

Jack just stared.

“It’s a bit pre-emptive; normally we let the companies make ‘em and deal with marketin’, but then you’d get a Jack Frost in blue tights and a jingly hat.”

He didn’t even crack a smile.

“I’d figured we’d introduce ‘em next Easter since it always seems to get that last big winter hurrah,” he shot him a wry look, “and see if we can get a candy bigwig to pick ‘em up, but we can try for December if you want. Just thought North would take up most of the recognition with Christmas and all. ‘Course, it’d gall him to share and even more to make your action figures, so maybe we should.”

Jack finally looked up at him, his face pale and so very, very lost.

Bunny faltered, and tried for another joke. “Least it’s not a chocolate Jack, so no cannibalism, eh?”

The youngest Guardian let out a harsh sigh, still cradling the box like it was his lifeline, and then croaked, “You made these?”

“Yeah. Best candy maker ‘round, mate. Not a bad artist, either.”

“Why?”

“Because you deserve it,” he said, matter-of-factly, “and because I keep my word, Jack. I said you weren’t alone, and I meant it.” Bunny smirked and then drawled, “The Easter Bilby’s got your back.”

“Oh,” Jack said, his voice quivering, and then tears escaped his eyes and froze like icicles on his cheeks. 

Bunny jerked up from his chair, alarmed, and reached for Jack just as he darted away from the table.

“I’m sorry,” he said thickly, scrubbing at his cheeks as he rushed over and grabbed his staff, “I can’t—I can’t do this right now.”

“Jack! Jack, wait!” Bunny darted around the table and tried to stop him, but it was hard to think with the constant barrage of ‘What the hell did you do, Aster?!’ bellowing in his head.

And then there was silence because for all that Jack had been upset before, Bunny realized he couldn’t feel anything from him now.

“Jack, wait, let me--!”

Then his words failed him because Jack embraced him, a quick, hard thing around his neck. He felt Jack’s breath ruffle his fur and Bunny reached for him again, but it was like trying to capture a wraith. He was gone in a flurry of light and snow, leaving nothing but a cold phantom weight against Bunny’s chest.

He cussed, blindly moving to follow when that faint pressure slid like cool silver. Bunny stopped in disbelief and brought his paws up to clasp the small, iridescent egg hanging from an ice crystal chain around his neck. The egg was cold, an intricate frost diamond swirled with delicate crystalline ferns, and Bunny was speechless. He turned it back and forth in his paw, marveling at it as it sparkled in the dim light. 

Then a loud crack erupted and he flinched. His paw burned like he was clasping dry ice, and he ripped the pendant from his neck. It hit the floor, shattering into a mess of jagged black ice that hissed and popped at his feet.

His hackles rose; he growled at the nasty thing before he could stop himself and scooped up the pristine chain. He gathered his weapons, wrapped the glimmering crystal strand around his gauntlet, and ran from the house down the Warren’s main access tunnel.

He prayed the chain would lead him back to its creator.

Something was horribly wrong with his Frostbite.  
\----


	6. Infection

Bunny ran, claws digging into the dirt as he veered left, bounding down the winding tunnel. The silvery chain on his gauntlet flickered and pulsed, following the erratic trail of its creator. Jack had no destination, it seemed; he was merely riding the wind, fleeing blind, and Bunny grew more frantic with every passing moment. The thought of that burning, popping black ice urged him faster, and he bolted to the right, only for his forearm to jerk back. He cursed, dug his claws in the dirt and swiveled, wrenching himself backwards. On and on this continued, his muscles screaming with the strain, his heart pounding in his ears like the seconds of an ominous clock, until a blast of familiar pain slammed into his chest.

The ground over his head rippled and rumbled, flaring with a green light, and words in a long-dead tongue cut through the whirlwind of Jack’s pain and fear--

“Tarim Basin. Hotan, China. Grave danger.”

It barely registered, the errant baffling thought of Jack in a desert, before Bunny reached out, bathing his paw in the light. Everything blurred; tight pressure surrounded him, a crushing rush of speed like a comet blazing through the dark, and then he dropped like lead, pitching forward in crunching sand as frigid air burned his lungs.

A winter wasteland met his disbelieving eyes. Jagged ice peaks splintered with black ripped through the barren dunes, piercing as shark’s teeth. Arctic winds howled, biting him, pushing him back as frost tried to bind his feet in crackling shackles. He bolted, dodging as ice erupted around him, snapping as a bear trap, and all the while his cries for Jack were swallowed by the raging gales. 

He cussed, sharp ice slicing the bottom of his foot, and then he spotted it—a lone green dagger jutting out of the snow beside a swirling mass of crystal spikes. He landed next to it, wincing at the sting, and desperately searched for any sign of his winter sprite. The silver chain on his arm pulsed so brightly it was nearly blinding, and his eyes caught finally on a curled, flailing hand at the base of the twisted spines.

“Jack!” 

Bunny rushed forward, and the rest was a mindless panic of slashing claws that chipped away the thick ice shell. Red began staining frosted glass, blood from his cut, numbing paws, but all he could see was Jack through the crackling ice, his body contorted in agony. He ripped away the massive shards, freeing Jack’s upper half, and kicked the diamond binds around his legs. They shattered with a resounding crack, and he yanked Jack free of his crumbling prison.

All the while, Jack was screaming.

“Jack!” Bunny cried, gathering the thrashing boy in his arms, and then hissed in pain as scales of frost swarmed over his bloody, matted paws.

Frantic, he tapped his foot and fell into the tunnel, landing with a yowl when his torn foot throbbed. He quickly knelt in the dirt, wrenching his frostbitten hands from Jack and watched helplessly as he screeched and writhed, new ice branching out from his chest. Bunny cussed and ripped at Jack’s hoodie, fear raking like iron nails down his spine when the frozen fabric gave way to a festering wound. The skin over his heart had ruptured in a mangled bloom of ice crystals surrounding a black-encrusted lesion; reeking fluid burbled from it like oil, gushing in the veins of frost weaving across his body.

‘You know what’s happening,’ a voice whispered, a shadow creeping in the back of his skull. ‘You remember. Oh, how you remember. And there’s nothing you can do.

‘After all,’ it crooned, harsh as a crow song, ‘what goes better together than cold and dark?’

Jack wailed, incoherent pleas for mercy ripping from his throat as icicle tears fractured on his cheeks, and Bunny snapped. White-hot rage surged through him, burning away the fear in a roiling firestorm of hatred and sheer bloody-mindedness. No one would take his mate from him—no one—and this bastard was not going to win! Not now, not ever!

“Jack!” he snarled, pressing his gashed paw against the rancid wound, ignoring how it stung with hungry frost. “Jack, wake up!” Bunny growled, grabbing Jack’s face none too gently with his free paw. “Open your eyes, Jack!”

He jerked away with a whimper.

“I said look at me, Frostbite! C’mon, Jack!”

A hint of blue met his eyes before shutting in pain.

“Jack!” Bunny shouted. “Jackson!”

That barely earned him a blink.

“Jackson Overland Frost!”

Jack struggled against him, gritting his teeth, curling his hands in gnarled claws, and desperation purged an insane bid from the depths of his scrabbling mind.

“Sweetheart!” 

Bunny felt himself howl it, felt the saccharine thing vibrate in his throat, felt it ripple off his tongue, and he froze, incredulous, as it rumbled through the chaos like a crack of jarring thunder.

Everything stopped, and Jack stared back at him with wide bloodshot eyes.

“Bunny?” he rasped, the sound raw and scraping.

“Yeah, Jackie, it’s me,” Bunny said, sliding his paw to block Jack’s view of his wound. “I needja to stay with me now.”

“Nightmare?” 

“No, no more nightmares. I’m real. I’m here.”

“Hurts.” Jack moaned softly, grimacing. “Cold. Why’m I cold?”

“It doesn’t matter right now,” Bunny insisted gently. “I needja to do somethin’ for me.”

“Feels wrong,” he whimpered and shifted, panicking when tainted frost slithered up his neck. “Something’s on me. What’s on me? Something’s on me! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!”

“Jack, stop!” Bunny snapped, pressing down his chest and forced himself not to cringe as black ooze welled up between his fingers. “I’m gonna help you, but you have to calm down! Please, Frostbite!”

Jack stilled, his breath shuddering in the tunnel’s quiet, and then he whispered, voice so small he would have lost it in his cupped paws. “I’m scared, Bunny.”

“I know,” he said, curling his free paw around Jack’s right hand and smiling when he squeezed back. “But I’m here now, and I’m not lettin’ ya go. All you need to do is keep talkin’ for me, all right? Can I hear you say, “I’ll be fine”?”

“I’ll—I’ll be fine?”

“Good. How about a bit more convincin’ this time?”

He took a deep breath and lifted his chin. “I’ll be fine.”

“Better.” Bunny nodded. “Now, keep sayin’ that, and keep lookin’ at me.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably but held his gaze as he repeated the words.

Bunny waited until the rough mantra built, a slow glow of conviction in his hoarse voice—and the faintest stirring of hope. He felt it flutter under the blackness and reached, an intangible part of himself coaxing it to grow. He imagined a blanket of snowdrop flowers, fields of sweet hope rising out of the cold black soil. He imagined them spreading, thriving on the fear that flooded what would be the crystalline cathedral housing Jack’s soul. Bunny looked into Jack’s eyes and saw a wondrous glimpse of it, a great fortress alive with the intricacy of dancing frost. Light shimmered and fractured like diamond dust on its surface; the movement carried in a crisp winter wind that rustled through the small white flowers and sang with laughter, playful and teasing as a nip to the nose. He imagined the petals swirling like delicate snowflakes in the brisk breeze and reached again, cradling that bright joy as a glittering blue snowball in his paw, and pulled.

Jack gasped, flickering his eyes to the paw flat on his chest. 

“What?” he breathed, unnerved, because for all the world it felt as though Bunny’s paw was in him, gently holding not his heart, exactly, but something incomprehensibly around it, through it, within it, beyond it—a very important, very vulnerable something stemming from everywhere and nowhere—and he panicked.

“Shh, I gotcha.” Bunny smiled and then drawled, “M’fraid you needed a mite more than a hope ball to the face.”

Jack just gawked at him.

“Now, this is the tricky part,” he said, ignoring Jack’s disbelieving huff. “I needja to recall the frost. That’s what you felt before.”

“But—But I don’t have my staff—”

“Oh, well, luckily, you were trainin’ just for this sort of occasion.” Bunny smirked at his glare. “Just focus on the joy, Jack. I’ll be your conduit if you need it.”

There was a moment of tense silence; Jack took a deep breath, closing his eyes and tightening his grip on Bunny’s paw as his face scrunched in effort. The tendrils of slithering frost cracked and creaked, pausing an anxious instant before disintegrating in powdery wisps and baring the twisted mesh of black veins on Jack’s pale skin.

Bunny hissed, disgusted at the expanse of it, and jumped when the silver chain on his gauntlet shattered.

Then Jack went limp, his head lolling as a slurred, exhausted mess jumbled over his too-blue lips, “D’I geh eh ah?”

“Jack? No, Jack, don’t! Jack, stay with me!”

He swore, powerless as Jack fell unconscious; his soul quivered, weary and confused but trusting in Bunny’s embrace. He could feel the shadow probing, trying to pierce his hold on Jack’s light like a dark arrow, and if that happened—

He wouldn’t let that happen.

Bunny grabbed a glass orb from his bandolier and shouted, “North’s infirmary!” before chucking it down the tunnel. A shimmering gateway opened once it was airborne, the smells of antiseptic and yeti battering his nose as the rippling picture materialized. He scooped Jack up, careful not to dislodge the paw on his chest, and leapt.

Pain jolted his foot as he landed hard on the cold stone floor, but all he could think about was the boy in his arms. He ran for the nearest bed, setting down Jack’s ragdoll-limp body and firmly pressing both paws over his wound. The scramble of a startled yeti finally hit him, and he couldn’t stop the panic screeching in his voice.

“Get North down here! NOW!”  
\--

The sight when he entered the infirmary was something he’d never forget.

North knew from Francis’ yowling as they stormed down the hall that Jack was injured, that Bunny was with him, that Bunny was hysterical, and that it was serious. 

He was in no way prepared for the reality.

Bunny was absolutely haggard, a desperate madness in his eyes North hadn’t seen in 600 years. His paws were a matted, mangled mess of blood and what looked like black ink pressing down on Jack’s chest so hard his arms were quaking, and he was muttering in a low frantic murmur. 

Jack was far worse. His staff was nowhere in sight, what he could see of his clothes were in tatters, and the rest was lost under blotches of frost smattered like jagged scales. His face was a sickly grey tinge with sunken eyes, dark blue lips, smudges of that same ink like bruises; if it not for the faint gurgling rattle of his breath, North would have assumed Jack was dead.

“What happened?!” he barked, the possibilities flying through his mind as he ran to Jack’s bedside.

His eyes locked on Jack’s face, and the wave of shock and horror that washed over him was so overwhelming he nearly fell to his knees.

“Bozhe moi!”

Those were no black smudges.

It was a web of black burrowing roots, like a fungus, spreading over Jack’s skin.

It was an infection of pure fear.

“Stop starin' an’ help me!” Bunny snapped. “The splinter site is over his heart! Bastard must've infected him before the Fearlings turned on him!”

Nothing else explained such a severe infection, North knew. Fear favored time to seep into its victims. A seed of it would have slipped unnoticed, passing as a grain of sand, and as Jack became anxious or worried, it would root. It would feed on his fears, exacerbating them through nightmares, isolating him with depression, hopelessness, helplessness, and the terror of being shunned if he ever tried to talk about it. Jack was the perfect feeding ground--scared of loss, scared of weakness, scared of failure, scared of intimacy, scared of rejection, all topped with a mastery at hiding it—and the parasite went unmolested.

“He hasn’t done this since the war!” North thundered, shaking his head. “We stripped him of his ability; the Moon assured us!”

“The Moon lied!” Bunny raged, pinning him with his eyes. “He tricked us into performin’ a mercy, lettin’ him reign as the Nightmare King! It gave him 600 hundred years to master dream sand, and 600 hundred years to find a crack in his chains!”

“But why Jack?”

“Because the Moon set him up for this! He damaged Jack, made him just like enough to pique the interest and then dangled him like bait!”

North cursed in realization. “He’s using Jack to free himself. ”

“And Jack’s powers are rippin’ his body apart in the process!” he snarled. “Pitch is makin’ Jack’s ice attack at random to terrorize him more, and now the frost is rejectin’ Jack as its master for abusin’ it! If we don’t stop the fear--!”

North moved immediately at the sheer panic in his voice and pressed his hands next to Bunny’s, ignoring the squelching ooze staining his skin. 

“What do you need me to do?” 

“Hope is not enough like fun,” Bunny spat, pained at the admittance. “It can’t shield his soul for long.”

‘Nor was it meant to,’ he thought, not that he would ever say it. The Guardians could influence the soul, coaxing out the aspects they cherished, but it was always from a distance—a whisper of dream sand, an intangible snowball, a wondrous toy—and for a brief time. He’d only known Tooth to use direct intervention for believers with traumatized minds, and Bunny, with perhaps the most potent power of all, to only uproot hope when the soul wasted away in the absence of it. Even then, it was for a moment. For him to grab all of the soul through a foundation of hope, to cradle and keep it from drowning in fear as long as he had was unnatural, unheard of, impossible; Santa Claus was not about to let the Easter Bunny show him up in this, either.

And he was not about to let Jack go without a fight.

“Wonder is closer,” North concluded with a tight nod. “Switch on three!”

It happened just as the last syllable echoed; the paws lifted, and he slid his hands over the gaping lesion. He reached, as he would imbue a creation with wonder, and thought of his exciting duels and grand adventures, of the marvel in flying his beloved sleigh, of the hope of his visits and the happiness they brought. He found the niggling familiarity of Bunny’s hope wilting like a dying flower around a bright cold Polaris star, and he snatched them from a pool of slithering oil. He imagined the star to be as resilient and indomitable and wonderful as the mischievous sprite who saved the last believer, who survived three hundred years of personal agony, who brought children back into their lives, and who stole cookies from the kitchen when he thought the yetis weren’t looking. He imagined, and he felt the petals give way to a blue glow that swirled like a playful gust of snow in his grasp. 

“Got him,” he said, in awe of his sudden bond to what should have been Jack’s intangible core, and then snorted when the Jack-ness poked at him with vague impressions of confusion, fatigue, and kangaroos. ‘Even now, is still about Bunny!’

“Keep him safe,” Bunny said, turning from the bed. 

“You are not leaving until you’re treated!” North snapped with a glare even as he wrapped Jack’s soul in thick blankets delight at the thought of inciting a glorious yeti snowball war.

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you picked fight with office printer and lost, Crocodile “Bun-dee”!” 

Bunny’s eye twitched in irritation, but he plowed on doggedly. “I can’t protect Jack here, and Pitch’ll never stop ‘til he drags us back to the Dark Ages.” 

“What will you do, throw boomerang at him? The Moon has not provided us with means to stop Pitch, and even if he did, it would not be permanent! Pitch has role to play! You cannot kill fear!”

“I don’t have to kill him to destroy him!” he retorted, cold and final as a shutting tomb, and tapped his foot, disappearing down the rabbit hole before North could protest.

The bearded Guardian swore, a steady stream of cusses in a wide scope of languages, and then barked at poor frazzled Francis lurking in the hall, “Send out the Aurora! Tooth and Sandy must get here now! And bring me a chair!”

He heard the yeti scramble away and let out a frustrated growl.

“Your knight in furry armor is hot-blooded moron,” he said tartly, feeling Jack’s light flutter with a strange mix of worry and amusement. 

He sighed, staring at Jack’s still body, the sickly pallor of it, and angrily wrenched his thoughts from the past. Jack would not die; North was not helpless against this plague, and his stories would not be a deathbed comfort, but a means of survival. He would make sure of that, and he would make them as fun and wondrous as possible. He would not let fear make another victim of Jack Frost.

But it didn’t stop his guilt that Jack had endured such torture for so long.

And it didn’t stop him from worrying what Bunny’s guilt might drive him to do.

He could only hope the others would get here in time.

“Reminds me of my first duel with a nasty pirate!” He smiled as Jack’s light buzzed with faint curiosity. “Can you imagine, Jack? There I was, trapped on a great ship with nothing but my trusty shashka—beautiful swords, they were!…”

He was interrupted twenty minutes later, seconds after Francis had finally fetched him a chair, when a procession of gibbering, jingling elves burst through the door and bombarded him with unintelligible cries.

“This is why I work with yetis,” North muttered to Jack, and turned to the jabbering crowd. “What is problem?”

It was amazing how hard his heart clenched when a tiny hand waved a very distinct, very empty black bag in the air.

“Where did you get that?!” he cried, aghast at the thought them accessing what was supposed to be an impenetrable vault. “If this is another irresponsible yeti prank--!”

It was worse, so much worse, when the elf tapped his foot and hopped.

“What did he take?!” North bellowed, and he couldn’t help it, not when it felt like he’d been suddenly dropped from a great height.

He wasn’t thinking, wasn’t paying attention to the shadows slipping through the cracks of his hold on Jack’s light, and he cursed violently when tainted, biting frost ambushed his hands.

“Jack!” 

He reached again, frantic as cackling fear coiled around the waning light of Jack’s joy, and he would have given much for Tooth to not have darted in at that moment—

“North, I came as fast as I could! I can’t find Sandy, and where’s Bunny—Oh, sweet fluoride! Jack!”

—because she lunged for Jack, horror-struck, just as the black jagged ice attacked.


	7. A Scream in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the headcanon blend of bookverse and movieverse really started taking off.
> 
> Also trigger warning for a past violent character death and terrible, terrible angst.

The darkness was waiting.

Bunny felt it as he walked. His skin crawled with it, his instincts jittering at the charge of anticipation. Eyes watched him unblinkingly as the shadows whispered sweet words from a spider to a fly and ushered him down the corridor. He stepped softly, the echoes vibrating in the quiet like a trip-line, and all around him, fear salivated. 

The corridor opened finally to the ruins of a chamber, empty but for the clusters of swaying iron cages. He stared at them as the silence buzzed with the memory of fearful fairy tittering, and then made his way over jagged slabs of rock toward the distant light. It trickled down from a hole high above, a hole beneath a rotted bedframe, and the yellow of it tinted its stage the color of an old bruise. But its star was missing; the stale air trembled with rumbling hoofbeats, and Bunny followed. The sound led him to a descending staircase, and he nearly recoiled at the sourness that bit his nose like rancid breath from a kelpie’s mouth. His claws scraped the stone and Bunny soldiered on, chasing after the reek of fear as the stairs carried him along the pitted wall of a gaping crevasse. A tangle-web of crumbling staircases riddled the passage lit with twisted shadow lanterns, and his winding stair collapsed. Bunny jumped back, teetering on the edge of aged rock, and looked ahead to a smashed platform of ebony and ivory just in hop’s reach.

And then he stopped, because before him, looming like a lone black queen on a decaying chessboard, was the King of Nightmares. 

Bunny looked at the lithe King again, suspicion nagging like a tug to his whiskers, and the deathly quiet broke with the screams of horses. He glanced up and tensed, his paws twitching for his kukri at the sight of that horrid mass of Fearling darkness. It twisted and rippled in a maw of dripstone teeth, and there, writhing in the throes of his Nightmare prison, was the body of Pitch Black.

Bunny quickly locked his eyes back on the waiting shade and jumped, landing on a dusty square of ivory. The shade turned slightly, as though to accommodate an admirer, and Bunny’s lip curled. Pitch looked like he had back in the Golden Age, a towering shadow, cloaked in the darkness that stretched between the stars, black hair sharp and wild as the tall cowl that flared like raven wings about his neck, and in his hand was a black crook, a shadowed mockery of Jack’s bright staff. 

“So,” Pitch said, soft and cloying, “the rabbit would face the fox. What a shame you’ve caught me underdressed for the occasion.”

The smugness of it clung to him like tar, and Bunny raised his chin in defiance.

“If I’da known you’d be dustin’ off the ol’ Bowie look,” he snarked, “I’da grabbed ya some padded tights.” 

Pitch laughed and turned his hand, the long fingers curling like dead spider’s legs. 

“Tis a crystal, nothing more. Nothing, nothing, tra la la.” He smiled, an oily shark’s grin. “But it’s not a babe I’ve taken from you, is it? Not one you’ve wished away.”

Bunny said nothing, his face stoic, and Pitch tsked in disappointment.

“I know you know what I’m doing to poor little Jackie. In a few moments, I’ll be completely free.” He paused, giving his bandaged paws the once-over. “Oh, and I’m so glad you’ve treated your injuries; the old lummox was very worried. Did you remember to retrieve your clever little spoon, too, sweetheart?”

Pitch cackled, a crow-song of delight. Then he stilled, narrowing his eyes when Bunny failed to react. 

“This is the part were you say something pointless about how you’re going to save your beloved.” He walked, slowly circling his guest. “Not that you can, but I certainly expected it from someone who threatened—quite uselessly—to destroy me.”

The shade stopped, pinning Bunny with hard yellow eyes, and then hissed, “Not that you’re particularly useless, are you, Pooka?”

Bunny said nothing.

“Oh, I remember,” Pitch insisted, practically chewing the words. “You and the Moon, and your little plan to render me impotent, all to protect your precious children.” He smiled nastily. “Your Guardianship surprised me most of all, you know. Ah, how cruel the Moon can be—to make you love and protect the spawn of those who killed your people. Only, they didn’t just kill them, did they? It’s amazing,” he laughed, “what frightened, hungry little people will do to very big bunnies!”

He didn’t so much as twitch.

“Those were such marvelous times,” Pitch said mildly, “when it was just the Moon and I. Truly delightful.”

“We made you a king,” Bunny said finally, tone hard and flat. 

“I was a God!” He roared, the rage rolling like thunder in the silence. “I kept them safe around their little fires at night, protecting them, controlling them, killing off the stupid ones with bouts of ill-timed fearlessness, and they worshipped me for it!

“And then the Moon tried me to make me a harmless Boogeyman for those sniveling pieces of filth, and they forgot,” he snarled, “no one is immune to me!”

Pitch smiled then, a soft thing a parent might give a silly child. “So I gave them a gift to remind them.” 

“You caused nothing but hatred, pain, ignorance, and death for centuries.”

“Oh, the Dark Ages were just so beautiful, weren’t they?” He sighed longingly. “So many, many things to fear, but never anything more than other people. You have no idea how delicious it was to spread that madness, that hysteria—the uncertainty! To see your loved ones die of the plague, to see their bodies in the streets, in the canals! To see them burned alive, tortured, dismembered, brutalized in the name of salvation, and to know that you’ll be next, and you’ll never see it coming! Ah, I’ve never fed so well on so much inspired agony.”

He leveled a glare at Bunny. “And the fat man had the audacity to offer me an allegiance!” 

“Wanted ya to wear the Krampus suit, eh?”

Pitch sniffed disdainfully. “He wanted me to bow before squalling infants. Naturally, I declined. And then, in an immensely irritating tactical move, you starved me for 600 years.”

“I’m overwhelmed with remorse,” Bunny said flatly.

He bared his teeth in a grisly rictus. “It gave me time, of course, to embrace my shackles and put myself back on par with that vapid Dream-Weaver.”

“And you ended up right back here with your ponies.”

“Yes, banished down here because of a child with a stick. How very convenient, wouldn’t you say?” Pitch lilted, and resumed his circling. “It occurred to me, as I languished under the effects of that cute little trick, that I was a pawn.

“It was not enough that the Moon tried to replace me. It was not enough that he leashed me like a dog when I retaliated. No, the coup de grâce was when I had built myself back up to a moment of glory as the King of Nightmares, only for it to be a lie so the Guardians could be taught a lesson in obedience!”

Pitch laughed depreciatingly. “Little Frostbite thinks the Moon left him waiting until he was needed to put me back in line. But I know better. It’s sad, really, how he refuses to accept how insignificant he really is.

“The Moon could care less about your suffering so long as the children flourish, but they weren’t. He saw you losing believers and sent in the dark horse,” he fleered, “to take you from your pedestals and give you back to the disillusioned brats. You were counting on Jack to work with you in tandem to defeat me, but it all came down to Jack helping the children reestablish their total dominance. 

“I suspected it the moment I absorbed Mansnoozie. That was far too easy, and far too like someone who might be inclined to grant a desperate wish at the say-so of his conniving master, ready to punish you all for your complacency! Because once I eliminated the reinforcer of your existence in pleasant dreams, the real distance you kept from your believers nearly killed you. As soon as Jack helped the boy beat me with “fun”, as soon as he used that “playfulness” to usher you back into the waiting collars of your child-masters, you won.

“It was a thoroughly scripted play,” he said, almost admiringly, “but, our dear old friend overlooked one very important detail. For all his planning and careful concern over his precious children,” he leaned forward, grinning as Bunny’s nostrils flared in irritation, “he forgot to protect you. I may be restricted to one unsubstantial facet of fear for them, but I can still reach my fellow spirits.”

“Obviously.” Bunny glared.

Pitch stepped back and laughed, a dark, curdling thing. “Not to your Snowflake. He mocked me without the protection of your precious Sandman, allowing my nightmares to take root. It’s been such a long time since I’ve found someone so susceptible to fear in waking reality, and your Guardian contract, well—it just made taking Jackie Boy all the more satisfying! It’s true, as they say,” he smirked, “revenge is very good eaten cold.”

Bunny bristled, clenching his paws into fists. 

“The Moon made it child’s play. He gives you your gifts and then turns them against you if you should ever use them inimically to your vows. Not that you bothered to tell Fairy Boy. And, really, what could be more poetic than using the means of your enslavement to free myself? ”

“So you used Jack’s fears against him, makin’ him attack things that weren’t really there.”

“Oh, no, they were there. He very nearly attacked those adorable little children, and,” he chuckled, “darling Tooth isn’t doing so well right now, I’m afraid. I can’t wait to see what happens when she dies. You should hear Jack screaming in his head—so delectable!”

Pitch practically thrummed with the thrill of bloodlust as Bunny seethed, and he goaded, “It just gets better as he fades!” 

Then he shrieked in Jack’s voice, “Please, God, Tooth, let her be okay! No! Don’t, don’t, don’t! Why is this happening to me? Please, just stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Please, help me! Please, Bunny, I don’t want to die! Bunny, please, Bunny!”

Bunny trembled, taut as a piano wire. 

“Really, he’s so afraid,” Pitch crowed, “I don’t know which to choose from! But, if I had to pick one flavor, there’s really nothing like terror with an edge of betrayal.” He leaned against him, stooping and ethereal as a hunting shadow and whispered, “Shall I tell you what you did to him, rabbit? What he let you do to him?”

Bunny froze.

“He wept and bled so beautifully beneath you in his nightmares. Perhaps I should try it for myself. I bet the fear is twice as intoxicating when his tightness is squirming all around you--!”

Pitch cackled as Bunny stabbed his heart, his paw and knife passing right through the blackness.

“Oh, naughty!” He tsked, wagging his finger. “Was that supposed to hurt me, rabbit?”

“No,” Bunny growled, pulling back, and then watched in satisfaction as a Star of Bethlehem blossomed in the shade’s chest. “Not yet.”

Pitch sneered at his new badge and then boggled as the rabbit lobbed a handful of bright orange eggs at the swarming Fearlings. 

The eggs exploded into a firestorm on impact, the concussion pulverizing the dripstone as Bunny ran for cover. Blinding light and heat struck the screeching horse-wraiths, melting and fusing their sand as they tried to flee. The rearing, bucking frenzy cracked their fragile flesh; with a shriek, the horses shattered in a downpour of black glass, and Pitch’s body fell to the shard-strewn floor. The shade cackled and bent in a patronizing bow to his savior before fading back into his freed shell.

Pitch awoke with a cough that warped into a low chuckle. He rose to his feet, the glass crunching under his weight, and he laughed as the shadows flickered over the unnatural planes of his face. 

“That won’t save him!”

“No,” Bunny snarled, grasping that ghostly flower in his paw, “but this will!”

Agony ripped through the King’s chest like claws burrowing into his lungs, and he scrabbled at nothing, helpless to Bunny’s wrath.

“You,” he spat. “You can’t use this on me!”

Then he squawked as the grip tightened.

“I assure you, I can.” Bunny smirked. “With all your bloody talkin’, you didn’t notice me diggin’ for that one last glimmer of hope in ya—that one last sliver of a soul.”

Pitch opened his mouth, and then jerked as though slammed into a wall.

Bunny bailed him up, pressing his serrated kukri against his throat until a dribble of black slipped beneath the King’s sleek cowl.

“You’re a miserable piece of shit,” he hissed, relishing as Pitch twitched anxiously. “It’s disgustin’ how much the Moon values you, but he’s not here now. And that no killing rule? Consider it void.”

“You can’t kill fear!” Pitch blustered, and then cried out as his core jangled in alarm at the sudden crushing pressure.

“That’s what the Moon wants us to think, but you forget who I am,” Bunny snarled. “I’m the reason you’re here. I’m the reason your Fearling armies were banished back to the Dreamin’. And I’m very well acquainted with Father Time.”

Pitch’s eyes widened.

“Those spirits you turned, like ya tried to turn Jack—they were more powerful than your first ponies. There was no way we were gonna let you have any chance at gainin’ them back, so we destroyed them.

“We did to them what we did to you. All that fear was sent back into darkness, but they weren’t as lucky to be crowned a king. They were dangerously unstable, so we stripped them of their powers—and their immortality.”

Bunny’s eyes hardened, the cold green of a jade blade, and he whispered harshly, “It takes 20 seconds for Death to catch up with you. Your bones brittle, your skin thins around your bloated, rotting organs, your muscles pull tighter and tighter until the bones snap and you fall, splitin’ open like a ripe melon on the ground. But you’re still alive, drownin’ in your own blood, and release doesn’t come until what’s left of you liquefies.”

He sheathed his kukri, pulled a clear glass sphere from his bandolier, and held it up to Pitch’s face.

“Twenty seconds,” he said.

“You do that,” Pitch rasped, his eyes wild with desperate fear, “you’ll die. You’re using hope to hold me, you’re using it to help murder me, and it will respond in kind!”

“I don’t care,” Bunny bit out the words, cold and bitter as an arctic wind. “And if Jack was dead, we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation. 

“But he’s alive, purgin’ your filth from him as we speak, and I won’t die for you. No, I much prefer lettin’ you destroy yourself.”

Pitch sneered at him. “The Easter Bunny means to drive me to suicide?”

“Naw, mate.” Bunny bared his teeth. “I told North I didn’t have to kill you to destroy you, and I meant it. All I have to do is open your eyes.”

The Nightmare King struggled against him, and he leaned forward, pushing the crystal against his chest.

“You talk about the Moon playin’ favorites when he’s let you sleep in ignorance for 50,000 years; that mercy is a mistake I’m goin’ to correct!” 

Bunny crushed the crystal against Pitch’s chest, the shards piercing the wilting soul flower in his grasp, and he growled as Pitch howled in pain, “Tell me, General, how’s your daughter?”

Pitch wrenched himself from Bunny’s grasp with a cry and dropped to the ground. He clutched his head, screaming as Nightmares waged war with the splintering light, and then collapsed. The silence trembled with his shuttering gasps, and Bunny waited until the Bogeyman rose, bolting up in a panic. His yellow eyes were guileless as he scuttled, scrambling over the checkered stone and patting around his neck. Bunny stared and wondered, the answer finally rustling in his ears as Pitch fumbled, confused and lost, in the dark.

“My---My locket,” he muttered breathlessly, searching his black robes. “Where—Where’s my locket? My locket. My-My locket. I need my locket--”

He looked up, imploring, and started to speak, only to stop, his eyes going wide in horror. 

“No,” he whispered, “no, no, no--”

Bunny was silent.

“No, no, no!” Pitch screeched. “It’s a lie! It’s a lie! I didn’t-!” he cried, black tears welling in his eyes as he cradled his head, “Oh, God, I didn’t! Please, no! No!”

“You did,” he said. “She’s dead.”

The King of Nightmares broke. His anguished screams rang with the shrieks of horses; the shadows surged forward in a rolling wave, consuming everything in sight, and Bunny ran as Pitchiner’s world came crashing down around him. 


	8. Hope Is All You Have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some potentially triggery injuries, but note that nothing is permanent. Bunny's condition was also purposefully unrealistically described as seeing blackness instead of just nothing for plot reasons.

Bunny hopped up from his tunnel and landed on the hard wood floor of North’s workshop. He swayed, rubbing his burning eyes as he struggled to right himself. He heard the yetis coming long before they grabbed him, and, after some bickering, let them haul him to the infirmary. Just down the hall, the sharp reek of bile and blood stabbed at his nose, and Jack’s heart-wrenching sobs reached his ears under a mess of Tooth’s frenetic tittering and North’s fervent whispers: “shhh, you’re safe, son, you’re safe.” Bunny wrestled himself free and ran to the source, skidding over the jagged ice sheets as he nearly tumbled into the room. The infirmary was a mess of crystal shrapnel and fractured wood; the shine stabbed at him until his sight blurred and a blob of green darted into his face.

“Oh, Bunny!” Tooth cried, and he felt the air shift with her nervous fluttering. “Where’d you go?! What’d you do?! Where’s Sandy?!”

He ignored her, brushing past as his mind clamored with shrieks of “blood” and “mate”. He fumbled his way to Jack’s bedside and fell to his knees before pulling Jack to his chest. Jack sobbed against him, frozen tears rolling through his fur, and protective rage burned through him like a dark fire. He felt North grab his shoulder and tug; he lunged without thought, bearing and clacking his teeth in a quick snap.

North jerked back with a curse as Tooth squawked.

Bunny turned away, closed his eyes, and buried his nose in Jack’s hair. He whined; it was wrong. Jack smelled wrong—not his, not his, never his—and all Bunny could see was Jack’s body twisting into a Fearling Prince with dead-light eyes. 

“Bunny,” Tooth started softly, “what --?”

“Stupid rabbit!” North snarled. “What did you do?!”

He took a deep breath and forced his hackles down.

“Lobbethed thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch,” he said. 

“Is not a joke!” North shouted. “I trusted you! You swore you would never go into that vault, and now you expect me to tell Jack you used the Moros without thinking through the consequences?!”

“I didn’t use that!” he retorted over Tooth’s horrified screech. “I grabbed the Aletheia.” 

The ice rattled and clinked in the silence beyond Jack’s muffled sobs.

“You used that on Pitch?!” North roared. “Oh, Moon will have your guts for garters! That prototype was still in development! Too dangerous!”

“What did it do?” Tooth whispered.

“It was meant to help Jack regain his memories, but there was no way to control it. No way to guide step by step, no way to ease into the bad things—” North made a low noise in his throat. “That was no way for him to learn about his daughter!”

He heard Tooth cry, the words nearly lost behind her hands. “Oh, Bunny, you didn’t!”

“I couldn’t kill fear,” Bunny hissed, “but I could destroy Pitch Black by breakin’ his host, and I regret nothin’! Not if it means savin’ Jack!”

“But you were never cruel, Bunny! Pitch is a creep, but he didn’t deserve that!”

“I wasn’t the one who killed his child!”

“So you kill his spirit in retaliation?!” she screeched. “What gives you the right? His host is innocent; he’s a victim! He didn’t know, he didn’t know anything, and you just shoved that in his face and left?!”

“I don’t care!” Bunny shouted, each word the sharp crack of a bullwhip as he whipped around and glared. “I don’t give a damn about Pitch Black! You all let him run wild—you let him take everythin’ from me—and he was not gettin’ Jack!”

Tooth started to warble. It rankled, the gall of it, that she would think to know what this felt like—that she would guilt him for his actions, as if Pitch Black mattered more than Jack, and then coo at him like he was a stupid wounded animal when she remembered why. Why he was alone. Why the Pooka were dead. Why Jack mattered more to him than anything in the world.

“Jack saw everythin’!” Bunny snarled viciously, rage burning him from the inside out, burning him alive. “He heard everythin’ and he couldn’t stop it! Do you understand that?! Pitch raped his mind, and he used me--” his voice cracked, “--to do it! That gives me every right! That gives me every right to make that child-murderin’ bastard suffer all the hell he deserves! Jack is family, I am family, and I did what you should’ve done for me 600 years ago!”

Tooth made a sound like she’d been hit.

“I swore I would never let Jack down again; I didn’t! He’s here, he’s alive, and I will not let you float there with your Moon-simperin’ bullshit and talk to me like I’m the sadistic prick for carin’ more about Jack than his torturer!”

He could feel North’s anger, his temper a black thundercloud that sent his hackles rising. “That’s enough, Aster!” he said, full of censure, dark and bitter as wormwood. “You are not the only one who loves Jack! You are not the only one who has bled for him! We are family—we work together as family—as you say! But you are reckless, charging after Pitch, leaving us here to deal with mess, leaving us to deal with Jack if you had not survived!

“I thought you were dead!” he shouted. “You betrayed my trust, Bunny! When I saw the black bag—I knew you had taken it, and you would leave Jack more broken than he was! You would leave us in ruin; you would hurt the children, you selfish fool!

“What about Easter? What about Hope? What if you turned Pitch into even more a crazed monster than before?! You don’t know! You just threw us into a situation that nearly cost Toothy her life, and you accuse us of being poor family?! Just because we care about the consequences does not mean that we didn’t fight with everything we had for Jack—and for you! How dare you say otherwise! How dare you!”

The silence was so heavy it crushed his lungs and sent his stomach roiling. His chest was tight. He could feel their eyes on him, the air souring with pity and disappointment. Poor Aster didn’t know how to be family, didn’t know how to love, wasn’t good enough for them—wasn’t good enough for Jack--He was going to be sick.

He forced himself to breathe. Jack needed him. Jack was still here. Jack. Jack. Jack. He gently stroked his back and nuzzled his frost-rimmed hair. Jack quieted slightly, his breath hitching, and Bunny murmured reassurances in his mother tongue. Low, soft sounds, promises of safety and comfort that he’d hoped might lull Jack back into an exhausted sleep. He was injured, slick with slush-sweat and ripe with sick-scent. He needed to rest. 

The floor groaned as North took a step forward. A quick rustle of fabric, arms reaching, before he checked himself.

North choked out an oath.

“Bunny,” Tooth shrilled, “Bunny, what’s wrong with your eyes? They’re white!”

Bunny froze, swallowing hard. Then he blinked deliberately. Once. Twice. He breathed sharply, gasping out a tiny, “Oh,” as the truth hit him like a punch to the gut. He’d opened his eyes. He couldn’t tell. The darkness was the same. 

Tooth’s fingers trembled as they dug into his chin and turned his head. Her distressed whine rose to a wail, and he flinched. The sound stopped abruptly, giving way to the angry swish of her wings. They sliced the air now, sharp as knives, like she could cut away his blindness. 

His—blindness. 

Bunny was blind.

“Boomer?” Jack croaked, pulling him away from the panic scrabbling up his spine.

He freed himself from Tooth’s grip and shut his eyes. It made no difference, but Jack was awake. He knew—he knew Jack would blame himself for this, and he would spare Jack that pain as long as he could. He curled around him and set his muzzle at Jack’s ear.

“I’m here, mate.”

“What—What happened?” He sounded groggy, rough from screaming.

Bunny held him tight. 

“Hey, Jack,” Tooth said softly from the other side of the bed. Bunny could hear her smile. “Welcome back.”

“Tooth? I don’t—” There was a pause; Bunny felt Jack tense. “Why’s there blood on your face?”

“Oh, uh, this little thing?” she chirped with a horrible nervous laugh. “Just a scratch! Nothing to worry about—”

Jack thrashed against Bunny hard, slamming his head into his chin. Bunny nearly bit his tongue and reared back as Jack pulled and yanked and punched and kicked like a wild beast. 

“Jack! Jack, stop!” he shouted, fumbling for the boy’s wrists. “It’s me! It’s Aster!”

Jack fought harder and panicked babble ripped from his lips. “No! Not again, not again! Bunny, please, Bunny, don’t! No, no, no--!”

‘Shall I tell you what you did to him, rabbit? What he let you do to him?’

Bunny felt his heart break in radial cracks. 

He didn’t know when he started talking; his throat was raw. “—ot real. Please, it wasn’t me. You’re not there anymore. He can’t get you. You’re safe. You’re here with me. You’re safe, I promise—”

Jack's fingers twisted his chest fur and Bunny hissed, grabbing his hands as Jack panted, chanting breathlessly, "No blood, no arrow, not there, not there, not dead--"

"Jack," he said sharply. "C'mon, Frostbite, listen to me!" He released one of Jack's flailing hands and roughly settled his paw over the bloody bandage on the boy's chest. 

He felt Jack go still, rigid as a board.

“You’re fine, remember?”

He waited; it was almost worse than the blackness.

Then he felt cool fingers alight on his paw.

"Bunny?" Jack whispered, and oh, he sounded wrecked. "You're…You're here?"

"Yeah, I'm here, Jackie." He pressed his muzzle to his temple. He couldn't let Jack know about his eyes. Not yet. "And North, and Tooth. We're all here, and we're not lettin' ya go. We're at the Pole. You're safe. We're all safe."

Jack sniffled wetly, choking on a sob; his scent was bright with pain. "He--"

"--can't hurt you anymore. I promise you that." Bunny gently ran his thumb over his collarbone. "He can't get you."

"You were infected," North said as he lumbered over to the bed. 

Tooth tittered softly from somewhere behind him. Bunny imagined her peering cautiously over the man's shoulder lest her injuries set Jack off again. He cringed; he hadn't even noticed she was hurt. 

"In…infected?" Jack's voice cracked.

"With fear. Pitch tried to turn you into a Fearling."

"He tried to turn me into a horse?"

He sounded so bewildered and offended despite his distress that Bunny smiled involuntarily into Jack's hair. 

North coughed. "Ah, no. The Nightmares you know, Jack, are made from Pitch. They are part of him. Fearlings were made from people, from children. He put fear into them, and it devoured them from inside out. It turned them into monsters. Sometimes human. Sometimes horses. Sometimes abominations."

Jack flinched and grabbed at Bunny's paws, squeezing them tight. "So, I would've--"

"You would've been a Fearlin' Prince," Bunny growled. "Turnin' a child makes an imp-like monster you can fend off. Turnin' a spirit makes a nasty bugger you're lucky to survive meetin'. But turnin' a Guardian--" He swallowed.

"It was bad, Jack, before your time," Tooth cried softly. "Pitch--they used to call him the God of Fear because he was so powerful, and that was how he did it. That was how he made his army, and they weren't like the Nightmares now. You couldn't just stop them. You had to take the darkness from them, but then--" She stopped.

"We had to handle the hosts." North finished after a crawling pause. "And you will never know how glad I am it did not come to this."

"But," Jack's hesitation was palpable, and Bunny could imagine the questions crowding his tongue, "he didn't. Turn me. Just…almost?"

"We got to you in time," Tooth said soothingly.

"But, what did you do? I remember--I remember Bunny, and--and the thing, and then North, and pirate ships, and then it's all--" Jack's breathing hitched. 

"I stopped him," Bunny said. 

"What did you do? Did you--Did you kill him?" 

"No." He grunted. "I couldn't. Not allowed."

"So what did you do?" Jack started pulling at him. "Why won't you look at me?"

The heavy pause sent Jack's pulse skyrocketing. Bunny felt his stomach drop.

"Bunny? Bunny? What's wrong? Boomer--!" He pushed at him uselessly. "Tell me what's going on! Why won't you look at me?" He felt Jack turn his head in North's direction. "Where's Sandy?"

"Jack--"

"Somebody tell me!" he croaked, raw and ragged. "What happened? What did I do?"

"No, no, Jack, you didn't do anything," Bunny rushed to assure him and started when Jack wrenched free and grabbed his face.

"Then look at me!"

Bunny kept his eyes shut tight and tried to turn away.

Jack held on and gave him a shake. "Look at me!"

"Jack," North said, and from Jack's violent jerk Bunny realized he'd tried to pull him back.

That was when the cold began to seep through his whiskers.

"No!" Bunny snapped. "Frostbite, don't!"

The frost sluggishly crackled up his face before melting into his fur and dribbling into pools of slush. The sour sick-scent intensified as Jack went limp against him. 

"Idiot!"

"Look a' me…" Jack slurred weakly. "Why won'tchoo…"

"I can't," he whispered and could've cried in relief when he heard the faint sighs of dreamsand shifting through the air and twin exclamations like prayers to the Sandman. 

"Bunny…"

"Shh…" He ran his claws through Jack's hair. "Just rest. You're safe. I'll tell you in the morning."

Jack winced, gave a low whine of protest, and then went quiet as his breathing evened out in deep sleep.

Bunny sighed and eased himself from Jack's bed. Tooth flitted over and her hands danced fretfully over his shoulders as though he might fall at any moment.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, ashamed he’d missed it.

“And you’re blind!” she squawked, her voice cracking and slightly hysterical. “Why are you blind?! What happened?! Did Pitch do this to you?! Oh no, no, no, no, no! The children! Easter! Oh, Bunny, what’re we going to do?!”

“We consult Manny,” said North curtly as he loomed over them like a thundercloud. “After we move you to your quarters.”

“North, I—” Bunny started quietly.

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said gruffly. “You say you are sorry, but you are not. You are not, and I don’t understand that.”

Bunny drooped and then puffed up defiantly because North didn’t understand about mates, he didn’t know what that meant, what Jack meant--! Tooth pressed down on his shoulders and he kept his mouth shut.

"Now you are blind, and I cannot fix this," North said lowly, pained and betrayed, and it was even worse than the shouting. "I can't trust you anymore."

“North—”

“Tooth will take you to your room,” he barked, “and you will stay there until I say, or I will strangle you with my bare hands!”

Bunny tried to speak, fumbling for the words, but inarticulate grumbling and pounding footsteps drowned out his reply, and the crack of a slammed door quickly ended the conversation.

He felt Tooth shift nervously beside him. The impact of his words settled in his mind, the horrible, nasty accusations neither of them has deserved. Regret and shame twisted the knife in his heart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean of that. You are my family. I don’t blame you. I just--” his voice cracked. 

“I know,” Tooth said softly, patting his arm in sympathy. “He knows it, too. He—He’s just scared. We both are. We don’t—” She paused and then continued roughly, “We thought those days were over, Bunny.”

He settled his paw over her hand and sighed. “So did I.” He cleared his throat. “I am sorry,” he insisted.

She clicked her tongue. “I know,” she murmured with a nod, “but not for everything.” 

Bunny stiffened, but the words weren’t accusing or wounded or disappointed, just resigned. 

“I can’t regret that,” he said. “I can’t.”

‘Because I would do it again,’ he didn’t say. He fumbled along with Tooth’s guidance until Jack was secure in his arms and then let her lead him into the hallway.

“Mates,” she said, like that explained everything.

And it did. 

\--

Her hand ever present on Bunny’s arm, Tooth carefully brought them to Bunny’s quarters. She opened the door, warned of the door’s clearance, and helped him move inside. She fluttered over to his bed, more a strange hybrid of fur-lined nest and bed, and pulled back the blankets. She quickly fluffed up the carrot-embroidered pillows and went back to Bunny’s side as the stubborn Pooka tried to shuffle his way forward, stumbling into an ottoman with a curse. She guided him to the bed where he promptly yet gently set Jack down and helped situate his mate in a more comfortable position.

“Should we tuck him in?” she asked softly, though Jack stayed deeply asleep. “I mean, he likes the cold, so…”

“Thank you,” Bunny said in lieu of an answer.

Tooth bit her lip and reached out to grab his paw. “C’mon,” she whispered, leading him around the edge of the bed and helping him settle in beside Jack.

“I need to go check on him.” Tooth smoothed the rogue tufts of fur on his shoulder. “But I’ll be right back.”

He nodded stiffly.

She sighed softly and squeezed his paw. “We’ll get through this, Bunny. I promise. No matter what happens. You’re not alone.”

“I know,” he whispered, his expression horribly blank.

Tooth frowned. “We…” she tsked, muttering, “Oh, what did you tell me?” before nodding to herself. “We are clan,” she said firmly. “Family. We don’t abandon each other.”

He said nothing.

“We didn’t abandon Jack, and we won’t abandon you. Ever.” 

“I know,” he murmured again.

The silence was unbearable.

The sightlessness had to be so much worse.

Tooth sighed quietly. “I’ll be back,” she insisted. “Don’t worry.”

Bunny nodded and then carefully curled around Jack. A dismissal.

She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling far too heavy for flight, and flitted out the door, closing it quietly behind her.

\--

North hadn’t felt so unhinged in centuries. His hands were shaking no matter how tightly he clenched them into fists, and he couldn’t stop thinking. Not about ideas, not about inventions—and he should have, he should have been thinking about Braille and the potential of echolocation, and how they were going to manage Easter and keep Jack clean of Pitch’s poison! No, his mind was full of Bunny fading, Hope dying, Jack falling into despair, what pitiful thing Pitch had become and the suffering it wrought on Sandy, how powerless he was to stop any of this. Again. Useless, all over again. What good was being a Guardian when he was just as helpless as the man he used to be, building toys and telling stories to distract the children from their pain?

\--wet coughs, black dots, swollen lumps: the reaper on the back of rats--

“No!” He jerked away from the thought and looked past the slowly spinning globe toward the gibbous moon above.

North cursed and paced, his eyes flicking from the dormant altar to the globe bright with spots like winking fireflies and a soft halo of moonlight. 

He stomped and whirled around, glaring at the moon.

“Say something!” he cried. “I have never questioned you; I have never gone against you, even when I should have! I turned blind eye,” his anger flared even as he grimaced, “taking blame on myself because we ignored Jack and each other, but this will undo everything!”

The globe groaned softly as it turned, and the workshop’s pipes rattled in the quiet.

“I know you are not asleep!” he bellowed, half-wondering at the crazed sight he must make, ranting at the moon. “I’m Santa Claus, damn it!”

He heard a strangled squeak behind him and pivoted to see Tooth biting her lip.

He frowned.

She wheezed, muffled snickers escaping as her shoulders shook.

“Er—”

Tooth let out a loud shrill giggle and covered her mouth. 

North flailed, flustered. “What? Is true!”

She lowered her hand to clutch her stomach when the giggles turned into bright laughter. “I—I—” she gasped, then rasped, “—I’m Santa Claus—” 

“Ha ha, is funny,” North said sourly. 

“Oh, oh, I can’t—” She sighed, wiping at her eyes. “Oh, I’m telling Jack first thing!”

“No!” 

“Then we’ll tell Sandy and Bunny, and every time you want something done at the meetings, we’ll go,” she paused, held her fingers over her eyes, and then growled, “I’m Santa Claus, damn it!”

“You are evil.” North huffed. “And you cussed. Strike for naughty list.”

She smiled and shrugged. “Well, if Jack can do it...”

“That is terrible example to follow.”

“Worth it for a smile. Have you seen his teeth?”

North rolled his eyes. “If I had known teeth were so important, I would have reconsidered the cookies.”

“Really?”

“Well, maybe a little.” He held up his fingers in a pinch. “Fake sugar is only compromise you get.”

Tooth frowned and crossed her arms. “Your teeth will rot!”

“Then I will make better ones!” He smirked. “I would look handsome with the veneers, yes?”

“You’d make us go snowblind,” she said and immediately regretted it as North went cold and hard as the metal around them. 

Tooth fluttered over to him and squeezed his hand. “He’ll be fine. They both will.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. 

“You know they will,” she insisted. “Bunny’s strong. Even if his sight doesn’t come back, he’s still the Easter Bunny. He can still do his job. Yes, some things he’ll need help to do, but he’s not alone. We’ll figure something out.”

When North finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “We cannot abandon our duties for his. You have divisions, I know, but you’ve already been pulled away more than you can afford, and you are wounded—”

“It’s a bitty scratch, honestly—”

“—and I am already behind in production! Maybe, I could spare yetis after Christmas, but--!”

She flicked his nose and mustered up her best glare. “You, Nicholas, do not have the weight of the world on your shoulders! This wasn’t your fault, and it’s not something you need to fix! Has it even occurred to you that Bunny knew what he was doing?”

His glare was far more impressive, she had to admit. 

“Is that what he told you?” North snapped, his nostrils flaring. 

“No,” she said softly. “He didn’t need to. Just—Just think about it a second. Bunny is Hope. He can feel it. He nurtures it. You and I both know he could have done any number of things to Pitch, but he didn’t. Pitch hurt Jack badly, he’s hurt Bunny even worse, but Bunny still didn’t kill him.”

“He did not want to die himself.”

“But you didn’t think that at the time. You thought he would’ve to get revenge and save Jack. To save us. So, why didn’t he?”

North was silent, staring intently at the shimmering globe, for a long moment. “Sandy,” he said. “Aster left him there. He must have known about his hope to reconcile.”

She chirred and squeezed his hand again before letting it go with a little pat.

He frowned. “That does not explain why he is blind.”

Tooth opened her mouth to retort and let out a startled chirp when the moonstone altar came alive with blue light. She winced at the sudden glare and heard North’s pained grunt, but her wings buzzed with anticipation. If anyone could salvage anything from this mess, it would be Manny. She waited with bated breath, her heart swelling with hope and relief as the light coalesced in the silhouette of a man. She quickly glanced at North and felt that relief falter when he met her eyes grimly. 

“The contract,” he whispered harshly. “That’s why.”

She paled, her plumage flaring as she clasped her hands to her chest.

North jerked his head toward the stone. “He’s why.”

The clear ring of bells and whispering chimes echoed in the sleepy quiet.

‘Yes,’ said the Moon.

“Explain!” North barked, curling his hands into fists. “What happened in the Shadow Palazzo?”

‘Pitchiner is awake.’ Manny tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘Earlier than intended.’

“I’m sure Bunny will take petty satisfaction in that, except, of course, he’s blind!”

That last word carried in a horrible roar as North’s temper exploded. Tooth had never seen him so upset: skin flushed red, veins bulging, nostrils flaring as he spat out vicious, cutting words, and his eyes—they were wild and burning like coals bathed in blue fire. She cringed, suddenly very aware of his broad body and the damage those muscles could inflict. 

“You owe us,” he said, his voice dark, chillingly subterranean. “You will explain, and you will undo it.”

Manny was silent, and it felt as though he was dissecting them with his eyes.

‘I cannot,’ he said softly.

Tooth hastily grabbed North’s arm before he could rip the altar apart. For one terrifying moment, she thought he might try to fling her aside, but he froze, trembling with restraint.

‘There is nothing to undo. It is temporary.’

Temporary.

A word had never sounded more beautiful to North in all his life. He deflated with a great gust of a sigh, bone-deep relief rushing through him as though Atlas had taken back the world. 

“Then, why?” Tooth asked, indignant on Bunny’s behalf. “Why did you do it?”

Manny’s voice was strangely wry. ‘In this, I am but a means to an end.’

North scowled. “That is no answer!”

‘It’s true,’ began the Moon, so patiently it was almost patronizing, ‘that Bunnymund broke his word and violated the terms of his Guardianship. You cannot use your gifts to harm; Bunnymund bound Pitch Black by what little spark of Hope he had left and tried to destroy it with the truth of his actions. Such deeds cannot go unchallenged.’

“He opened his eyes,” Tooth said flatly, “so you took his.”

‘Just so.’

“What is wrong with you?!” Tooth screeched in exasperation. “Bunny was trying to protect Jack! If you hadn’t been so horrible to Jack in the first place and left him so vulnerable to Pitch’s attacks, this never would have happened! And you know Bunny didn’t do it to kill Pitch! Why else would he involve Sandy?”

‘I am not unaware of Bunnymund’s motivations,’ Manny said firmly, his voice as smothering as a heavy blanket, ‘nor his…change of heart. His initial intentions were to permanently disable Pitch Black in order to save his mate; I don’t think he intended on finding Hope worth encouraging in Pitchiner’s soul.’

“Reconciling with Sandy,” North said. 

“But what did you mean, ‘means to an end’?” Tooth asked suddenly, wringing her hands. “Is this to punish Bunny or not?”

She could sense more than see the Moon’s smile; it was disconcerting.

‘It is a lesson,’ Manny said.

“In what?” North volleyed back. “Abandoning his mate to his fate because it doesn’t go along with your plans?”

Tooth threw him a look. 

He answered it with a grimace.

‘No.’ Manny sighed. ‘There were consequences for Bunnymund’s actions, of course. I had to respond, but the choice of penance here was made by another interceder.’ 

“What?” Tooth blinked, baffled. “Someone had you blind Bunny, and you just said, “Sure, why not?” Are you serious?”

North muttered a string of curses and covered his face with his hand.

‘She has a grave message to impart,’ Manny said mildly, as though he was talking about the weather or what kind of tea he might like to try next instead of mutilating her friend.

She wanted to smack his ethereal face. Just a bit. 

‘All will be well,’ he assured gently. ‘Bunnymund will regain his sight in a week’s time. Perhaps sooner. I don’t doubt his ability to overcome.’

“So you—But—You can’t just—How can you--!” Tooth made a noise not unlike an angry robin as she gestured wildly and her face turned a charming shade of pink. 

‘You should all get some rest,’ Manny said. ‘A healing sleep is not out of the question, I think.’ 

The glowing moonstone flared brilliantly, engulfing the familiar silhouette in a bright flash of blue, and then the light was gone. 

The two Guardians stared at the dull, dark rock in silence.

The Globe squeaked as it slowly revolved. 

“Well,” North blurted with a great sigh as he ran his hand through his hair, “that happened.”

Tooth groaned. “What do we tell Bunny?”

“The truth,” he said. “It is temporary, and, if I understand correctly,” he shook his head, “he will have visitor.”

“I don’t understand any of this.” She looked at him entreatingly. “What’s really going on here?”

“I don’t know, but I have feeling we will find out.” North cleared his throat and then gestured for her to follow him. “Come, we will see to Bunny. He and I need to clear the air between us.”

“Go easy on him, please,” she said softly, linking her arm around his. “I’m not trying to make light of what he did, or your feelings,” she added quickly at his sideways glance, “but, Jack’s his mate. Well, almost-mate. It’s…different from a spouse.”

North raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know how it is for Pooka, but, for…” She paused with a hard swallow. “My mother said it was like finding your real heart. Mates are the very best part of you, so you protect them with everything you have. To lose your mate is to lose your soul. You live, but…you’re not alive.”

He made a low considering sound, not liking the haunted look in her eyes. 

“We should take look at your ‘bitty scratch’,” he said gruffly. “Make sure it doesn’t scar.”

Tooth blinked at the sudden topic change and lifted her chin defiantly. “Maybe I want it to scar!” 

She smiled; the red cut running across the corner of her mouth pulled, making her wince. 

North rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, you are fierce bird-woman.”

She smacked his arm.

“What? I agreed!”

“You’re just jealous I’m prettier than you,” she huffed. 

“I weep every night,” he said mournfully and mimed wiping a tear from his eye. “I do not have the dainty wings.”

“I hate you.” 

“Oh, strike two for naughty list!” he chided, tapping her nose. “I didn’t think you wanted the candy coal so badly.”

“Don’t you dare, North!”

“Fine,” he said agreeably, “you can have the fruit cake.”

She glared.

“What, birdies don’t like the walnuts?” He bit his lip as his eyes sparkled with humor.

“Oh,” Tooth growled, “I’m going to replace all your milk with soy and your cookies with wheat crackers!”

“Just you try. I know where you hide the toothpaste.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I think the mint frosting would be much better alternative—”

North’s laughter rumbled over her outraged cry. 

It was still subdued, but Tooth would take that sound over his anger any day. 

“Fine, fine,” he said, shaking his head at her pout. “Let’s go see our errant rabbit.”

They left the Globe Room quietly and travelled some ways through the workshop before Tooth spoke again.

“Do you believe me now?”

North frowned. “Believe what?”

“That they’ll be okay?” 

He met her eyes wearily. “I can believe almost anything,” he said. “It does not stop me from worrying.”

She nodded and glanced away.

North sighed, reaching over to settle his hand on hers where it curled around his bicep. “But I hope you are right,” he murmured, squeezing the tiny hand lost under his palm. 

“Bunny can work with that,” she said.

He smiled, a sad little thing, and tried to think of anything but the Moon’s cryptic message and the dread that this interceder was something far worse than Pitch Black. 

\--

The darkness was heavy.

Sandy was perturbed by its new weight as he ventured, a sole golden star in the blackness. It had never been welcoming, this underground palace with twisted shadow lanterns and empty corridors, so empty even the whisper of his sand echoed and bounced in the sharp-edged nothingness. But it suited Pitch, for the King of Nightmares thrived in shadow, lurking just out of sight, cackling on the periphery of raw nerves. He shifted and melted as the dark, circling with a drawn dagger more felt than seen so sweetly against the throat. He taunted and crooned, his voice thick as syrup, his words smearing like tar over reason until everything was fear.

There was none of that in this bleakness. This was binding, crushing chains of grief and guilt and despair. It was a helpless pain bleeding out into the gloom. The scream of it was unending, a madness that gripped him like pitch and shrieked to know that it existed and why.

He tore through the maelstrom of cloying ash, ignoring the muck clinging to him. He fought through the fear that stabbed him, the nightmares of hellish black sand, the memories of his loss ages before; he fought, grabbed, and yanked with all the hope and desperate wishes in his heart before finally the last curtain of filth gave way.

And there before him, curled and weeping on massive steps of black stone was not the King of Nightmares, but a general of the Golden Age. 

His heart sang, so brightly he nearly cried, and he reached out, gently touching his small hand to wild ebony hair. 

Pitch jerked and looked up, his pallid face streaked with tears, black as ink. His yellow eyes widened, and Sandy searched breathlessly for some sign of recognition.

Then Pitch shook his head and whispered, “Snoozie?”

Sandy could not stop his tears. They fell soundlessly, like streams of fractured sunlight, and he threw his arms around Pitch with a silent cry. He shook and trembled, and the sand rustled in joy. Pitch’s arms tightened around him, and he felt oily tears and damp breath wet his neck. 

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Pitch croaked, his breath hitching on a sob. “I’m so sorry. For everything, I-I can’t—!”

Sandy sniffled mutely, wet stardust dripping from his eyes to the blackness of Pitch’s shoulder. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” he murmured, “though I don’t have the right.”

Sandy lifted his head and pulled away, setting his small fingers under Pitch’s chin and coaxing him to meet his eyes. The inky residue on his face distressed him almost more than what he’d said, and he tried to brush it away. Gold sand clumped in the streaked mess; he huffed soundlessly and vainly tried again, making it worse, like brown sugar rolled in molasses.

Pitch watched the frantic sands flailing above Sandy’s head and laughed quietly, cradling Sandy’s hands in his when the small spirit froze at the sound.

“It is inconsequential,” he said with a sad fleeting smile, “but thank you for trying.”

With great reluctance, Sandy freed his hands and gestured as a question mark swirled over his head. It was simple enough to understand; but, then, Kozmotis had always been able to read Sanderson even at his worst.

“There is no point in delaying the inevitable.” Pitch sighed. “You’ve come to free me. I’m ready to die.”

Sandy looked at him, horrified, and the images spun faster.

“I am not worth saving.”

He glared and giant sand hands moved to shake sense into him, only to be rebuffed by wisps of black.

“You will listen to me!” Pitch cried, his hands imploring. “I know you have the weapon; I heard the rabbit speak of it, and you will use it!”

Sandy shook his head and reached for him, only for black sand to slap his hand away.

“I cannot live like this! I can’t live knowing what I’ve done, what I’ve destroyed!” His voice broke and fresh tears spilled. “I can’t live seeing the look on my daughter’s face when she realized it was her daddy taking her life! Please, do not make me! Please!” 

His lip trembled, and Sandy shook his head again as tears pooled in his eyes.

“If ever you loved me,” Pitch said softly, “you will do this for me.”

The tears fell like molten glass in one last refusal, and Pitch pulled from him with a snarl, rising as the King of Nightmares in dark gnarls of shadow.

“If the Sandman won’t kill me, than he can kill Pitch Black!” His face twisted in a nasty grimace and a black scythe formed in his hand. 

Sandy stood in resolute silence. The scythe struck, shallowly gashing his shoulder, and he cringed, sand flailing in a silent cry. But sanity was still in those yellow eyes, a plea still in that horrid voice; he did nothing.

“Fight me!” he howled. “I know you fear me, and I know you hate me; I felt it in your heart after I shot it with that arrow!” 

Black nightmares whips snapped, tearing at the stone foundations below his golden feet, and Pitch smiled, a ghastly mangled rictus. 

“Don’t think I’ll stop with you! I’ll break your precious Frost, and I’ll use him to kill the last Pooka as they all fell before him! Won’t that be poetic? The touch-starved boy eating his rabbit?”

The resounding cackle felt like a raven pecking at his eyes. He showed him so and then grimaced as black sand ripped his cheek, scattering gold dust.

“Do not mock me!” he raged, striking another blow. “Defend yourself!” 

Sandy wiped at his cheek and stared in defiance.

Pitch gnashed his teeth, and the blade struck again. “Attack!”

Sandy clutched his torn side and shook his head.

“Then you leave me no choice,” Pitch hissed, conjuring a crackling black storm in his free hand, “but to go after your beloved monkeys! Shall we see what happens when their nightmares come to life?”

Sandy narrowed his eyes and called his bluff with the image of golden shackles.

“I may not be the God of Fear, but the King of Nightmares can do much in the waking world that you haven’t even dreamed of!”

The Sandman walked until the tip of Pitch’s black scythe touched his neck and waited. His eyes met Pitch’s. The blade never moved.

You are very good at pretending, Sandy thought, and the graceful arcs of his sand sighed with the words, but you are Pitch Black no longer. And I will not give you what you want.

Pitch’s hands trembled, and his weapons shattered, black sand flitting off as butterflies of purest gold. Sandy smiled; Pitch went mad. Fury and pain churned into a mindless sandstorm of splintering shadows, thundering hooves, the screaming symphony of butchered unicorns. The underground palace shook and groaned, thousands of black blades chipping away at crumbling stone arches. Gold sands rose to protect and swirled as helpless fireflies caught in wild black winds. The hurricane scattered Sandy’s silent cries and tried to snuff him, but after millennia suffering that parasite masquerading as his friend, Sandy would not abandon him now. He reached, ignoring the sting of obsidian cutting him with every step, and then closed his arms around raging blackness.

The shrieking quieted, and the sands fell in a downpour, hissing against the cold stone.

‘I will never give you that,’ Sandy cried soundlessly, gold sand scraping, as he gripped the shadow-draped middle of the body slumped over him. ‘I did not live through this nightmare to lose you now!’

He looked up into the man’s worryingly fragile face, and his sands shifted restlessly.

“Please, Snoozie,” Pitch whispered, “let me go.”

He shook his head.

“The Sandman gives everyone their dreams; give me mine!”

‘Don’t my dreams matter?’

“You cannot want me!” he rasped. “I am a monster! I am nothing but fear and the hatred it breeds! I am a nightmare, not a dream!”

‘You are my friend.’ 

“I am your enemy!”

‘I need you,’ the hush of his voice quivered like a flame. ‘Destroying you would destroy me.’

“Don’t assign such sentimentalities to me!” Pitch hissed. “The man I was is dead; this is merely burning the corpse!”

Sandy jerked back, wide-eyed. ‘How can you ask me to do that as though it wouldn’t be my undoing?’

“You lose nothing! You have your Guardians—“

‘I love you!’ The wailing sands churned around them as a great, treacherous sea. ‘I have waited thousands of years for you! Thousands of years for you to wake up, for this nightmare to be over! I have watched that thing wearing your face ravish nations, burn empires, dethrone the stars, bring humankind to its knees, and I will not let you make us his last victims! I will not!’

Pitch stared at him, frozen.

‘Do you really hate me so much, Koz,’ the whisper carried like sand slipping through his fingers, ‘that you would ruin me to save yourself?’

“Do you love me so much,” he hissed, twisting the word ‘love’ like it was a disease, “that you would keep me languishing, so long as your heart stayed unbroken? Your happiness is a cruelty.”

‘That would never make me happy. I don’t want you to suffer.’

“And yet you’d have me live.”

‘We all deserve second chances—‘

“I murdered my daughter!” Pitch roared, a gut-wrenching keen. “I murdered her! I wrapped my hands around her heart and squeezed fear into it until it gave out, and all the while she was screaming for me to stop, “Stop, Daddy, please, stop, Daddy!” and I laughed!” he cried as oily tears seeped from his eyes. “I laughed! And you offer me life?! You talk about deserving—Why don’t you take it and give it to her?! Why don’t you just—Why don’t you just bring her back--!“ he choked, his face working as the words seized in his throat.

Sandy reached for him and watched him crumble as the moment stretched tight between them.

“She loved to dance, “ he whispered. “She—she wanted to see the performers in the court of Lyra, and I told her—“ his voice cracked, “I told her I would take her for her birthday. She gave me a locket and said, “Don’t forget, Daddy. You promised.” And I told her—I told her I wouldn’t let her down. I told her that I would be back with presents fit for a princess--“ he sobbed, a horrible, ragged gasp, “and I killed her! I killed my little girl!”

Sandy caught him as he buckled and wretched sobs tore from him. The sound echoed hopelessly, battering the cavernous walls around them, and black tears soaked the gold of Sandy’s shoulder.

“Please!” he cried in desperate shuddering gasps. “Please, just let me die, please!” 

Sandy shut his eyes and held him tighter as Pitch fingers dug into him like claws. The torrent raged, so hard he thought he might be stained forever, and then horrible words surged out from the wrecked man in his arms like lancing a poisonous wound.

“I’m sorry!” Pitch sobbed with great heaving breaths. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, love! I’m so sorry!”

'She forgives you,' Sandy thought, silent but insistent as the gentle murmur of a heartbeat. 'She forgives you.'

He had no idea how long he sat there, rocking the weeping man in the dark, until he found himself with puffy eyes and Pitch cradled against him in a fitful sleep. He ran his fingers through his mussed dark hair, down his grey face blotched with black, and wished for a wonderful dream: one of great Luna Moths and noble Constellations, of lockets that were never lost, and a girl that danced with her adoring father.

‘The Moon is never wrong,’ the sands sighed, and he knew it to be true.

Fear could protect and teach. Fear could lead and follow where wonder and dreams could not. Soon there would come a day where reason would speak to the heart in times of fright, where instinct would guide in times of terror, where the conscience would whisper of consequences in the dark, and the Boogeyman would no longer be a mere hallmark of childish fears, but a figure to respect. A Guardian of Morality.

But one could not exist consumed by what he wielded, and one could not wield a weapon so dangerous without firsthand knowledge of the anguish it could wreak. Sandy had known this. Sandy had understood this, and he’d watched fear consume its warden. He’d watched and waited, as his friend became a monster and the Moon’s perfect catalyst, with nothing but the hope that everything might lead to this. That he could finally get Koz back. That Koz could be the hero he was again. That he could take up his true mantle in spite of his violent grief and guilt and refuse to let it eat him alive. For who better, the Moon had said, to prepare children for life than the forgotten host of fear? And so he’d believed because the Moon was never wrong. Not ever.

It didn’t stop Sandy from hating him for it.


	9. Prelude to A NIghtmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major headcanon and flashback alert. 
> 
> Note/ Spoiler alert: Officially, (apparently) Mother Nature's real name is Emily Jane Pitchiner. I originally made up a petname based on her headcanon-y love of dancing and used Seraphina as her true name. Since I'm not a fan of the official name in the sense it doesn't sound particularly...exotic, and my version of the character is an entirely separate entity from the book character of Mother Nature, I'm leaving it as I wrote it.

The Sandman didn’t speak, though few really knew the reason why. Most thought he was silent to keep dreamers from waking. A clever few thought it was to protect the dreamers lest he divulge their most vulnerable secrets, but this was flawed: for where the Sandman went, so did his counterpart, and for every secret dream Sandy knew, so, too, did Pitch Black. A Guardian or two might chime in, if pressed, that Sandy’s silence was necessary to his role as the Moon’s confidant, and once, Sandy himself would have agreed. But the truth was far simpler.

Sanderson Mansnoozie didn’t speak because he was never meant to. His duty to the believers was to give them sweet dreams in difficult times. His role was not to confront their terrors and conquer their fears; that gift was given to a Guardian still unknown. All Sandy could do was grant reprieves, and it pained him deeply to be so powerless against their demons. He couldn’t help the children suffering horrors he dare not contemplate, and he couldn’t ease the torment of his fellow Guardians. When Toothiana cried out for her murdered parents, when North dreamt of the dead he couldn’t save, when Bunny’s mind despaired and raged at his fate, when Jack dreamt of nothing but darkness and icy water filling his lungs, Sandy gave them trilling phoenixes, flying machines, painted eggs, and snowball fights—empty comforts that just delayed the inevitable.

That was what he knew, and Sandy stretched himself thin trying to do his best from Pitch’s bedside. He sent out his sand like a gold burst of firework stars from the palace depths to the scattered dreamers above, even as he coaxed his friends into a healing sleep. All the while Pitch was slipping from his dream into the sheer madness of uncontrolled, unordered memories. It wore on him for three days, each moment underscoring his uselessness like claws scraping his back, and then, on the third night, he felt Jack fall into a nightmare. The chill of that deathly water stole his breath, fear puncturing his skull with stabbing flashes of Bunny and heartbreak and rejection and “please, don’t do this, I love you, please!”—

And then he cracked.

Sandy never tried to pry—he swore he didn’t—but he knew. He knew how much Bunny had struggled to accept his love for Jack. He knew how many restless nights Bunny had suffered, the dreams tainted with confusion, guilt, and an irrational hatred toward Jack that was as frightening as it was baffling in its conviction. He knew how hard Bunny worked to understand what he was feeling, how he tried to convince himself that there was no shame in it. He knew how much courage it took him to even attempt this much, to not back down for “Jack’s own good” because they were too different. He knew how much Bunny had finally committed himself to Jack no matter the consequences. He would never break his heart—He’d defied the Moon for him!—and Sandy was tired, so very tired, of fear destroying people’s happiness.

No more. 

Sandy was going to talk, and Jack Frost was going to listen, silence be damned.

He closed his eyes, the dreamsand churning around him, and passed into Jack’s nightmare. His eyes opened to a scene in Bunny’s warren, the details muddy and vague as Jack professed his love and clutched at Bunny’s arm. 

Bunny yanked his arm back with a look of disgust, spitting horrible daggers in the face of Jack’s pleas, “What the hell’s the matter with you? You’re human! Don’t ever come near me again, you sick freak!” 

And, oh, Jack wept, a terrible blizzard wailing as Bunny turned his back on him, and that was really quite enough.

Sandy stormed over, and without so much as a by your leave, smacked Jack upside the head with giant gold hand. 

Jack jerked, startled as gold dust scattered from his white hair and blinked dumbly through red-rimmed eyes. “Sandy?”

He crossed his arms and huffed silently.

“How are you…?” Jack stiffened, a look of consternation on his face. “I’m dreaming. You’re in my head, seeing what I’m dreaming, and--” he paused, horrified. “Oh, God, Tooth! What happened? Is she okay? Bunny? North? They were yelling about eyes and then—“

Sandy shushed him with a finger over his lips and spun the image of an “okay” gesture first.

“They’re all okay?”

He tilted his head in concession, since it was mostly true, and started to explain when Jack angrily interrupted him.

“Where the hell were you?!” he snarled. “That bastard infected me with nightmares, tried to kill me, tried to kill people through me, forced Bunny and North to do that—that soul thing, and I don’t hear a peep out of you until now?!” 

Sandy conjured a row of jail bars in front of him.

“You couldn’t?”

He nodded resignedly and wove a sparkling Moon over his head.

“Oh, perfect,” Jack snorted bitterly, nostrils flaring. “So what’re doing here?”

Sandy conjured that same row of bars and “broke” free, giving Jack an apologetic look.

He blinked. “Okay…” he said, “but how are you supposed to help—“ He stopped with a look of pure humiliation when Sandy wove a small picture of he and Bunny kissing. 

Then he paled, which the Sandman never thought possible, and started blurting faster than he could understand, “OhnowaitthatIcanexplainit’snotwhatitlookslikenothing’shappeningbetweenmeandBunnywhywouldyouthinkanything’shappeningbetweenmeandBunnythatwouldjustbecrazywe’rejustfriendsIswear—“

Sandy raised an eyebrow.

Jack’s mouth snapped shut, and a flush of frost crawled across his cheeks.

He managed to capture Jack’s attention, showing him the spinning hands of a clock.

“You knew for awhile,” he muttered, raking a hand across his face.

Sandy nodded, and then, carefully, conjured a bust of an angry Bunny before stamping it with a prohibition sign.

“You don’t…You don’t think he’d do that, if he knew?”

Sandy shook his head.

“But, he’d be right to freak out,” Jack sighed miserably. “I mean, I’m a human, and—there has to be something wrong with me to want a giant rabbit. It—It’s sick, isn’t it?”

Sandy stared at him flatly and wove an image of Jack pushing away a heart that kept returning stronger and more insistent.

“Yeah, I know, I tried to fight it, but—“

He gave him a small smile and held out his tiny hand as a golden figure above his head pushed aside long glittering curtains.

Jack furrowed his brow and clicked his tongue. “You…have something to show me?”

Sandy tapped his nose. 

“Are you sure you’re allowed to do this?”

He shrugged.

“Well, that’s the deal breaker, isn’t it?” Jack smirked. “Far be it from me to stop the Sandman from misbehaving.”

He took his hand, and then they were gone.

\--

The skies erupted with light. Jack watched in awe as stars and comets and looming Constellations materialized before him, shining in the vast darkness. It was just like in Jamie’s books, only so much more beautiful, and so close he could have touched them. In fact, he did. The temptation proved too great, and with a thought of, ‘Eh, why not?’ he reached out and bopped the big starry dragon on the nose. It growled in irritation and he laughed, full of childish glee, as they flew past his outlined claws and landed on the deck of a great airship.

“Oh, this is so awesome!” Jack laughed. “North showed me one of these!”

Then he yelped as it rocked, careening wildly through a star shower. Faceless deckhands rushed out, scuttling like crabs to wrest the ship, when a terrible screeching cut through the frenzy with thundering hooves.

“Nightmares!” the call rang out over the sudden screams, and the horses surged on deck like an oily tide.

Jack panicked, bolting backward as they neared. “I don’t have my staff!” 

Sandy grabbed his arm and pointed urgently ahead.

He turned in time to see a falling star land on the far side of the deck, and then a beam of moonlight shot into the burbling mess of fear. The Fearlings shrieked, scrambling overboard as a man charged them with a strange silver staff. A beam of moonlight shot from the end of it, striking the thrashing, melting mares, and then he dodged, quick as a cat, when flailing black tendrils retaliated. They struck, gouging the metal deck, and one landed a lucky blow, snapping the staff in half. The man snarled, throwing down the pieces, and then drew a gleaming white cutlass from his side and attacked. 

“Who is that?” Jack gaped, poking Sandy on the head. “No, seriously, who is that? He’s…Whoa.”

He watched the man raptly, ignoring the nagging tug of awareness at the graceful way he moved. Each slice and stab was fluid and precise, but he darted and stretched and leapt and spun like a shadow skittering beneath a streetlight. He was strong with a confidence and poise Jack envied and a towering presence that commanded respect. His profile was sharp; his dark hair was slicked back like a blade, and the lean figure he cut in that fitted black and gold uniform was nothing to scoff at. Jack whistled lowly in appreciation and tried very hard to not picture Bunny in something similar because he didn’t think his mind could handle Bunny in a suit. So it was very nice of this man to turn in his direction then as a proper distraction. Although, now that he thought about it, that beaklike nose was awfully familiar—

“Oh, my God, it’s Pitch!” Jack groaned in dismay and scrubbed at his eyes. “Argh! Why didn’t you tell me it was Pitch?!”

Sandy bit his lip in silent laughter.

Jack glared. “You walked me right into that!” He crossed his arms and pouted before adding, begrudgingly, “Well done,” and then, “Don’t you dare tell the rabbit.”

Sandy conjured a zipper and pulled it across his lips.

“Wait a second, that’s Pitch,” he stressed, as though Sandy had forgotten. “But he doesn’t—I mean, he’s fighting the Fearlings?” 

He nodded.

“When was this?” Jack asked, bewildered. “And why is he dressed like Captain Crunch?”

Sandy glared.

“Well, y’know, sans the froofy hat, and,” Jack paused, waving his hand vaguely in Pitch’s direction, “old man-ness...and the cereal…”

He kept glaring.

“What?”

Sandy sighed silently and gestured toward the landing site of the shooting star.

Jack looked, pulling his eyes away from Pitch’s battle with an effort, as a tiny gold hand reached out from behind a metal railing. It paused, and then a head peeked out, wisps of long gold hair dancing in a crown. It was Sandy, a younger, brighter Sandy, who stared with worried brown eyes at Pitch. The taller man struggled against what seemed to be a gruesome shadow beast more human-shaped than mare, and then gold strands of light burst forward from Dream-Sandy’s hands. They grasped the creature, whipping and slamming it into submission as Pitch looked on in bewilderment, and then the thing fell silent. Pitch stepped forward and plunged his cutlass into its chest, moonlight shattering it into black glass, and a great victorious cry went up from the dream-echo of a crew. Dream-Sandy’s sandwhips started to withdraw--

Then Pitch lunged, and Dream-Sandy scurried from sight.

“Wait,” he said, following the starlight trails and ignoring the worried battery of, “Sir, where are you going?” from his shipmates.

He stopped just before the railing, his cutlass still at the ready, and bit out coldly, “I am Brigadier Kozmotis Pitchiner, commander of the Mare Desiderii under the orders of Tsar Lunanoff. You will identify yourself at once.”

“What?” Jack groaned. “He—What? But, how did—When was--? Okay, I’m lost. When and where are we, Goldilocks?”

The hush rustled like a whisper of hissing sands that brushed against his ears. 

‘The…Dreaming…before…everything…’

Jack boggled.

Dream-Sandy inched out slowly, peeking up at the tall dark man, and a strange expression flickered across Pitch’s face, a slight softening that could have meant everything and nothing. 

“Hullo,” he said, his voice lighter than before, and tilted his head as though to peer around the spiral railing. 

Dream-Sandy took another hesitant step and gave him a quick aborted wave before averting his eyes.

“It is considered polite to provide your name when one has offered his first.”

He bit his lip and a flustered series of shapes whizzed above his head.

Pitch quirked an eyebrow at the display and drawled, “You certainly are a strange one, Sanderson Mansnoozie.”

“He understood that?” Jack huffed, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

“Now, if you could step out the rest of the way?” Pitch made a slight ushering gesture with his hand.

Dream-Sandy took a deep, silent breath and nodded, moving to stand before the looming officer. He squirmed, anxious, and jumped when Pitch suddenly crouched to his eye level.

“You’re a star,” he murmured, his yellow eyes wide in wonder. “I’d heard of The Falling Wishes, but I’d never seen one of you before.”

“I’m going to have soooo many questions by the time I wake up, aren’t I?” Jack snarked as Sandy rolled his eyes and motioned for him to shush.

Dream-Sandy abruptly blushed dark gold and scuffed his foot.

“Your weapons,” Pitch frowned, “what were they?”

Dream-Sandy wiggled his fingers and a swirl of sparkling gold dust danced around them.

Jack watched as Pitch stood, staring at the sands in awe, and then snorted when the man reached out and poked the glittering wisps with his finger.

“Man,” he muttered, “I thought I was the first one to do that.”

‘First…try…freeze.’ 

Jack smirked when Sandy scowled. 

“Amazing,” Pitch whispered, a faint smile tugging at his lips when the sands shifted into a tiny ballerina that twirled on his fingertips.

Dream-Sandy grinned and another jumble of images whirled over his head.

“Yes, you do a great deal more against the beasts than Mr. Nattlampa’s prototypes, anyway,” Pitch scoffed, frowning at the broken staff. “The Moonbeam attachment was brilliant, but I say it functions far better as a sword. Now, Sanderson,” he drawled, raising an eyebrow at his companion, “battle prowess aside, you’ve failed to mention what exactly it is you’re doing on my ship.” 

Dream-Sandy bit his lip and conjured a sparkling portrait of a royal family.

“I see. And, what, pray tell, did they send you here to do?”

He hesitated for a moment and then drew himself up proudly and made like a boxer.

“Really?” Pitch snorted and sheathed his sword. “This should be interesting.”

Dream-Sandy nodded, wringing his hands as the sands flapped in agitation.

“You liar,” Jack said, raising an instigating eyebrow at his companion. “You’re so bad at bluffing. Which begs the question, what exactly were you lying about?”

Sandy’s face fell as he ignored him and watched the scene with sorrowful eyes.

Jack frowned, wondering what he’d missed, and turned his attention back to the couple. Dream-Sandy was positively giddy, bouncing up and down at whatever Pitch was saying and staring at the man like he was the shiniest dream he’d ever seen. 

Jack blinked. Dream-Sandy was doing an awful lot of staring now, considering he’d just been painfully bashful—‘And wasn’t that weird,’ Jack thought—and his eyes kept flitting over Pitch’s face, then down his chest, then back to his mouth, then down his arms, over his fingers, then back to his mouth. A thought prickled like a nip of frost, but it was a mite too strange to contemplate. That is, until the couple started to walk away, and Dream-Sandy’s eyes kept following the elegant line of Pitch’s back and lingering on the man’s long legs, particularly his thighs. Then the reality smacked into him like a faceplant on an icy sidewalk the moment Dream-Sandy licked his lips.

“Dude!” Jack yelped, jolted with shock so potent it felt like someone else’s.

He couldn’t help it. His mind was on the verge of a massive freakout because that was the same way he looked at Bunny when he thought no one was looking, and he never really wanted to associate this behavior with Sandy and Pitch of all people—‘because wouldn’t they get sand in places and--? Gah! Don’t think about that! Really, only North would be worse—Argh! Bad thoughts, Jack, bad thoughts!’—and sure, ok, Dream-Pitch was attractive, but there was no need to inflict some kind of Eye Sex jamboree on the guy within the first sixty seconds of saying hi! 

“You had a crush on Pitch! But—But he’s—well, now, he’s--“ Jack fumbled for words and made a growly face, “and you’re—you’re you! Not to mention that he’s—“ he gestured like he was pulling taffy, “and you’re—“ he moved his hands like he was packing a snowball.

Sandy leveled him with the look of someone who knew just what exactly Jack wanted to do to a certain giant bunny rabbit in graphic detail.

He blushed and coughed. “Yeah, um, maybe that was kinda hypocritical, Creampuff, and, y’know, maybe I would have been cool with this if, oh, I dunno, this wasn’t the guy who tried to kill us!”

‘Wasn’t…always…bad…’ the sand hissed.

Jack was suddenly hit with a barrage of impressions—Sandy’s yearning to see this man after his low, gentle voice carried a simple wish, the first time he saw him like a vengeful god in battle, the subsequent times he lurked closer and closer, braver as he watched, entranced, then the sheer joy at being his friend, to be able to laugh with him, touch him, protect him, to be near someone so beautiful—

“You loved him,” Jack said, and felt his stomach drop as the cold truth of their reality washed over him. “What happened?”

Sandy gently touched his hand to his chest.

‘Me,’ the sands whispered.

Then the world faded to black.

\--

Jack opened his eyes to a dark room alive with the faint tinkling of bells and chimes. He spun around, trying to find the source amongst the sweeping ornate walls, twinkling crystals and obscured mosaics, and then stopped when moonlight cascaded from a great rose window. He felt Sandy grab his arm again and turned to find Dream-Sandy forming from glowing wisps of dreamsand. 

“Where are we?” Jack whispered, because it felt like he should, and then growled when dreamsand hands bopped his ears. “What was that for?” 

Sandy motioned for him to shut up and cover his eyes. 

He did just as the moonlight grew blinding. He winced, shutting his eyes tight beneath his fingers until Sandy tugged on his frosted sleeve. Jack lowered his arms carefully, squinting into the bright moonbeam, and then gasped as the light shifted into a silvery apparition Jack had never seen but immediately recognized.

“The Moon,” he choked, and everything lurched like butterflies trying to somersault up his esophagus.

It was so much worse when the Moon finally spoke, the words a clear, pure ring that Jack had never heard in his long, lonely life. 

‘You found him,’ the Moon lilted. 

Dream-Sandy smiled, and the sands rustled in joy. ‘He can hear me!’

‘I know. He is your other half.’

Dream-Sandy twiddled his thumbs in embarrassment. ‘We are friends. I…I am content with that. Did you know that the Tsar promoted him to General? He’s getting a new assignment today. He hasn’t told me yet, but wherever he goes, I will follow. I promised his daughter I would look after him, and—‘

The silence reached its fingers out, stilling the soft tinkling music, and then Moon spoke again, the low tones of a sorrowful knell.

‘I am so sorry, little star.’

Jack felt Sandy flinch beside him.

Dream-Sandy paused, uncertain as a golden question mark swirled over his head. 

‘Things are now set in motion that cannot be undone,’ the Moon said. 

‘What?’ the sands whispered as Dream-Sandy shook his head. ‘I don’t—I don’t understand.’

‘The Pooka have opened a gateway to a new world. Our Age is dying, and Pitchiner will deliver the killing stroke.’

‘What are you saying? He’d never do that!’ he argued silently. ‘He’s a hero! He stopped the Dream Pirates, the Shadow Men! He captured the Fearlings for you!’ 

‘And he will be consumed by them,’ the Moon murmured. ‘He is your counterpart. You are a Wish-Granter, a Dream-Weaver, a Beacon of Light; he can be no less than your opposite: Fear-Bringer, Nightmare-Breeder, Herald of Darkness.’

‘But he is not corrupted! He is a good man, a great man!’

‘But there is weakness in him, and he will be lost to the throes of insanity to play his part. It is necessary.’

‘You can’t do this!’ Dream-Sandy cried, the sands howling as tears pooled in his eyes like shimmering glass. ‘He is loyal to you! He has done nothing but fight for you! He doesn’t deserve this! He has a daughter! Please--!’

‘He was doomed to this the moment you told him your name,’ the Moon whispered with the harsh finality of a funeral toll. ‘If he can conquer the fear, then he will be your greatest ally; if not, he will be one of your worst enemies.

‘I need you, Dream Guardian, and the new world will need him as he will be and as he is meant to be. The God of Fear, the Nightmare King, the Guardian of Reality and Morality—he is all these. But he will only join you if he regains his conscience and accepts his burden. 

‘It is a trial few could endure, save Pitchiner. Can you tell me otherwise?’

‘No,’ the sands whispered, quivering.

‘He is the best for this. You know it in your heart. Who better than a general to understand such a weapon and use it well?’

‘Not if it consumes him.’

‘That is how he will learn. It will not last forever.’

‘No, just enough to destroy everything!’ the sands raged. 

‘I cannot change what must happen; I can only seek the best path for it. Would you prefer I did not tell you and give you a chance for hope?’

‘It is not about me!’ Dream-Sandy seethed silently, tears dripping from his eyes. ‘You’re ruining him! It would be kinder to kill him than to kill his heart! Do you even understand what torture you’re going to put him through?’

‘He will go through it with or without my interference. I offer a chance for life.’

‘What good is it when he would prefer to die?’

‘I had thought he’d seek a new life with you. Love is a great and powerful thing.’

‘He doesn’t want my love,’ Dream-Sandy cried soundlessly. ‘He just wants to protect his daughter. What happens to her when you ruin him?’

The pause was heavy like the shutting of a tomb.

Dream-Sandy threw his hands over his mouth in horror. ‘No!’ the sands cried. ‘No, please, don’t!’

‘I have no say.’

‘Then take me instead!’ the sands roared desperately as Dream-Sandy gestured at his heart. ‘I’ll be the Nightmare King! I’ll be the corrupt monster! I’ll be the tarnished star! I’ll do everything he’s supposed to do! I don’t care! Just don’t hurt them, please!’

‘That,’ the Moon whispered, ‘is precisely why you can’t.’

Dream-Sandy buried his face in his hands.

‘It will be hard for you. Until he finds himself, you will be the only one who can keep him in check. You will be the only one he shall fear.’

‘I love them!’ he sobbed silently, tears pouring down his cheeks as angry sand snapped against the stone. ‘How can you do this?’

‘Because I must,’ the words reverberated sharply, and then softened with sigh, “and because this must happen. Go say your goodbyes, little star. Use the time that’s been given to you.’

Dream-Sandy just stood there, gutted and betrayed.

‘Don’t interfere,’ He said in gentle command, if there ever was such a thing. ‘I am sorry for this,’ the bells jingled, and then the light was gone.

\--

Jack couldn’t think. He couldn’t even breathe. He was vaguely aware that his eyes were burning with freezing tears, and he couldn’t stop the pain coursing through his body. It was so strong, like a raging current pulling him under, and all he felt was a fractured, crushing mess of agony. There was guilt like teeth gnawing at his gut, and hate, so raw and hot and searing it ran through his veins like fire. It tumbled into shock, sharp and white and jarring as ice cracking beneath his feet, and then sorrow engulfed him like frigid water, black and dark and hopeless, only for it to start all over again. 

It lifted as suddenly as it’d smothered him, and the realization nearly dropped him to his knees. He was in Sandy’s mind, seeing his memories in dreams, feeling his emotions as much as he tried to hide them. It was all too familiar, skirting far too close to his own misery. But the reality was so much more crippling because he knew Sandy had felt this way for thousands of years. He had to fight Pitch, to treat him as an enemy, to endure his hate over and over again when all he wanted was some sign of recognition from the one he loved. 

“Oh, Sandy,” Jack whispered because there was nothing else he could say.

Sandy didn’t meet his eyes. He simply stood there as the new dream-memory unfolded.

The scene was unclear, a shining glass walkway in the midst of white haze, though Jack couldn’t tell if this was how it actually was or a choice to not remember. Faint balls of light flickered around them like will-o-wisps, and the quiet was broken by a clicking, trilling sound as old as the groan of swaying trees and the deep thrumming echoes of a battered mountain. He thought he saw figures moving in the mist, following those lights, or, perhaps, causing them, a ghostly procession leading the unwary to their doom. Then the glass rang, soft footsteps echoing as Pitchiner came up behind them and passed right through them with Dream-Sandy in tow. 

He stopped just before the end of the path and turned, facing them. This Pitch was older, his expression harder as though wrought in stone, much closer to the version Jack recognized. The uniform was different, replaced with a golden high-collared robe that starkly contrasted his storm-grey skin. It gave him an air of power, royalty, imperviousness, and a subtle contempt for his enemies underlying the surface indifference. Jack had no doubt that this man was as fierce, dangerous, and worthy of exaltation as he seemed to be. It was amazing how much that changed when he looked at Dream-Sandy. 

His face worked several times with the starts of a conversation only to falter, and he clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from fidgeting. 

“I’ve been given the highest honors,” he said finally, staring down at his friend. “It’s one thing to be made a General of the Golden Armies, but to be entrusted with this is the highest vote of confidence I can imagine.”

Dream-Sandy just looked at him dolefully. 

Pitch stumbled, clearly expecting something different. “The—the Pooka have used their abilities to create a kind of pocket-prison for the Fearlings we captured during the war. Tens of thousands of them tucked safely away, and I will be the one to make sure they stay that way until the Tsar reaches a decision.”

The sands said nothing.

“It will be a solitary posting,” he said thickly. “I am unsure how long. My only consolation is that I will be informed about Gisèle’s whereabouts--” 

Jack did not understand why Sandy suddenly burst into silent tears beside him. 

Pitch smiled, fishing out a locket from the fabric about his neck. “I just hope that this situation can be resolved quickly. I promised her I would take her to see the Lyran dancers for her birthday, and I don’t intend to let her down.” He pressed the locket to his lips and then tucked it away. “You’d better be bringing presents yourself, Sanderson. Don’t you dare try to upstage me this time.“

The teasing fell flat, and Dream-Sandy’s fragile mask crumbled in the precursor of a sob.

“Oh, Snoozie,” he said, clasping his shoulder. “This is not good-bye. We will see each other again.”

Tears and horrible knowledge pooled in Dream-Sandy’s eyes.

“I will miss your harassment terribly. It won’t be the same without having a beach stuffed in my boots.”

Dream-Sandy sniffled silently, tears coursing down his cheeks. 

Pitch gave him a worried look, then crouched, and pulled him into a tight hug. 

“There’s no time for tears today,” he said gruffly. 

The words just made him cry harder, shaking with soundless sobs until the sands whispered in anguish, ‘… I love you, Koz…’

Pitch was quiet for a long moment, his face unreadable, and then murmured so very softly in his ear, “You are the best friend I have ever had and the most wonderful person I have ever known. You and Gisèle are my world; never doubt that.”

Dream-Sandy clutched him so tightly his robe threatened to tear.

“Everything will be fine, Sanderson,” he assured, pulling away enough to meet his friend’s eyes. “I promise.”

He shook his head frantically, and his mute mouth ran in frightened desperation when his sands wouldn’t say the words screaming in his head. 

“I don’t—” Pitch frowned, confused, and then dismissed it with a sigh. “You worry over nothing. Please stop fretting.”

He cried, helpless as a banshee unable to explain her deathly keen, and panic turned his hands into scrabbling claws when Pitchiner tried to stand.

“I have to go,” he said firmly, disconcerted when his friend tried to wrench him back, digging his fingers into his shoulders. He paused thoughtfully, a sad smile flickering across his mouth, and then asked, “I have a request, if you would permit me?”

Dream-Sandy just tightened his hold until his small hands trembled with the effort.

“Star light, star bright, the first star in my sight,” Pitch whispered, bringing his gloved hands up to brush away the tears on his friend’s face, “I wish I might, I wish I may, have the wish I wish today.”

He looked up in shock, and it was a moment, a terrible, cruel moment when he clung to one last sliver of hope and shrieked with everything in him—‘Wish for me to tell you! Wish for me to stay! Wish for me to help, you, please, Koz!’—only to go completely unheard.

Pitch kissed his forehead, and then the hush of a wish filled his mind: ‘I wish that you’d let me do what I must… You’ll understand one day…’

His heart shattered, horror-struck, and he sobbed as he was rendered powerless, hands limp at his sides.

Pitchiner’s face twisted in guilt, and he hugged him one last time, murmuring, “I’m sorry, Snoozie, but everything will be all right. You’ll see.”

Then he rose, giving him a smile, before he turned and unknowingly followed the walkway into oblivion.

\--

Sandy was inconsolable, folding into himself as tears like fractured light trickled from his eyes.

“Sandy, I—“ Jack stopped, unsure of what in the world he could say, and then it didn’t matter because Sandy spoke for him.

‘I tried!’ the sand wailed as he shook. ‘I tried…went… save her…He…sent me…away…years…’

Words caught in Jack’s throat and then burst forth in a yell when the dreamscape changed again, sending them spiraling down into a scene of pure destruction. 

The Dreaming was fading, lost to a lifeless void as the whinnying, screeching blackness consumed everything in sight. A lone golden star shot past it, unsuspecting or unseeing, and shadowed claws like grappling hooks struck, ensnaring Dream-Sandy’s light. He screamed soundlessly, terrified out his mind as he was slowly pulled into gnawing darkness, the Shadow Men and Nightmares salivating for a bite.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” a low voice cackled, “how I wonder what you are.”

The Fearlings halted, and Dream-Sandy stared, devastated, when Pitch Black rose from the shadows.

He was unlike anything Jack had ever seen, an immense ghoul drenched in fear and death, a black fetid ooze churning with tortured faces, with a crown of black stars like unseeing raven’s eyes on his head. His face was monstrous, the sharp, unnatural planes of an ancient predator curled into a skull’s rictus, and in his spidery hand was a black staff, jagged and scaled like a broken beetle’s shell.

“Tell me, where might I find the prince?” Pitch whispered, cloying as tar, “It was terribly unfair of you to hide him before I got a chance to play.”

‘Koz!’ the sands screamed as Dream-Sandy fought in grip of darkness. ‘Koz, don’t do this, please!’

Pitch narrowed his eyes, and his staff cracked, unfolding a scythe’s blade like an iridescent wing. 

“Wrong answer.”

“Sandy!” Jack shouted even as his mind told him how ridiculous it was; there was nothing he could do in a dream-memory.

Then a beam of moonlight struck his binds, and Dream-Sandy was thrown, careening toward a distant blue star as a white-haired boy in armor clashed with Pitch Black. 

“Well, if it isn’t Nattlampa,” Pitch crooned, “I must be getting close to His Darling Highness. Good to know. Now you get to pay, boy, for losing me a star!”

‘Nightlight!’ the sands roared in dismay as Dream-Sandy shot faster and faster toward the blue glow, and then another hushed wish reached his ears—“I wish you well”—before he crashed through the portal and tumbled from the dim sky to a vast ocean below.

Jack had no real time to comprehend what he was seeing; everything around him ripped apart in the blink of an eye, and then he was standing with Sandy on a great dreamsand island. The sky erupted with a blinding flare, a rumbling shockwave that shook his heart, and then the night ignited with a shower of blazing stars. Some dotted the sky, forming bright constellations with the lesser extant stars; others fell to the earth with frightened screams, the cry of terrified refugees fleeing the jaws of death, and one, massive and silver, engulfed the dead moon with shining glory before an unearthly shriek pierced the heavens. The last gateway to their world shattered, and a flood of darkness breeched the portal as the Dreaming collapsed. Screeching Nightmares and Fearling riders dominated the skies, booming with the bloody rumble of the Wild Hunt, and the army swarmed the Earth unchecked as Pitch Black fell with a diamond blade lodged in his chest.

Before them, Dream-Sandy wept and wept until he thought he had no more tears to shed, and then the dreamsand shifted with the sigh of footsteps. He turned, his light paling when he saw a little girl with rippling dark hair and eyes black as ebony.

‘Gisèle?’ the sands whispered, disbelieving, and then fell silent as the girl shifted into a woman.

It was the woman she might have looked like had she aged, and yet not; for this woman was something else entirely, a force personified, with weathered green armor, wild hair, and cold, ruthless eyes.

“Hardly,” she spat, harsh as a crow-song, and even in his white-hot anger, he thought he knew her. 

The certainty of the Morrigan or a daughter of the Dirae danced on his tongue before giving way to painful clarity as the seas suddenly raged and the winds howled with her wrath.

‘How dare you, Gaia!’ the sands roared, uncaring of the danger. ‘How dare you take her face! You have no right!’

“I do what I like, Dream-Waver,” Mother Nature snarled, “and Justitia is in full accord! We’re both very aware of what Máni has planned for the thing that ate Gwyn ap Nudd, and it will not come to pass! You can dream of love all you like, but the so-called God of Fear will be destroyed, and the last thing he sees will be my new face. Such is a fate deserving of a child-murderer!” 

‘I won’t let you harm him!’

“He has brought untold pain unto me, and I will have his blood!” 

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Everybody, shut up!” Jack cried, clutching his head as that familiar cacophony of agony overwhelmed him—

And then all was silent.

Jack panted, the soft sound echoing in the quiet white dreamscape, and desperately tried to put his head back in order. Nothing made sense in his world right now. He understood the pain of unrequited love, but this—this—this was horrendous and so beyond anything he was prepared to see, and—oh, God, what happened to the Pooka, and what had happened to Pitch in the present? 

“Sandy,” he said softly, crouching in front the Guardian who looked so pale, so fragile, and heartbroken, “why did you show me this?”

‘…Know…not…alone…Guardian…’ the sands whispered. ‘…Know…listen…Bunny …tell…Bunny…love…’

“But why did you show me about Pitch, about—about his daughter, the Moon, everything?”

‘…need…help……accept…Koz… remembers…can’t…alone…not…enemy…’

“He remembers?” Jack stared at him, aghast. “How? What happened?”

Sandy looked at him, his exhausted face scrunched in concentration, and then he jerked. 

‘Something…wrong…’ the sands hissed, ‘…I don’t…’ His eyes opened wide in alarm and he staggered, holding up his hands as they dissolved in a winding stream of stardust.

“Sandy!” Jack cried, grabbing him, horrified when his fingers slipped right through him. 

‘Listen…Bunny…’ the sands whispered urgently, ‘tell…Bunny…’

Then Sandy closed his eyes as he vanished in a violent golden sandstorm, blackness stabbing like a serrated arrow—“I felt it in your heart!”—a guttural inhuman keen—“I murdered my daughter!”—a bloodcurdling shriek—“Stop, Daddy, please, stop, Daddy!”—

Jack woke up.


	10. Good Night Daddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST. So much angst.
> 
> Trigger note for same character death and hypothetically mentioned child abuse.

‘How strange,’ he thought sitting in the grass as a gentle breeze rustled through his hair. He could have sworn it was softly singing a lullaby, almost like the susurrus of sparkling sand, but that was nonsense. Whoever heard of whispering sand?

Perhaps it was the child. He spotted her twirling about in a meadow of flowers. She danced gleefully, her black tresses swirling as her green sundress fluttered with each playful spin. He smiled. Yes, it must have been the girl, though he didn’t understand why she was so happy. Nor did he know, really, why she was even there. The girl belonged, the sense of rightness heavy in his gut told him so, but—what was his connection to her? He felt content in her presence, as though he’d regained a lost treasure, yet the dull ache in his chest niggled. Missing…what was missing? No…

Who was missing?

And for that matter, who was he?

Tiny hands suddenly covered his eyes. He felt warmth at his back, a faint, so very faint laugh like a whistle of stardust in his ear.

“Sanderson,” he said and then wondered why.

The hands retreated, settling on his shoulders as the warm weight of a person curled around him. Gold wisps of light flickered in the corner of his eye, and then soft lips grazed his cheek. His breath left him as they kissed their way to the corner of his mouth.

‘Koz,’ he heard them say, but felt nothing more than a gentle press against his lips.

He reached instantly, capturing the soft body in his arms, delighting in the slight jerk of surprise that earned him, and then kissed back.

‘Sanderson,’ he thought as his fingers carded through hair soft as fine sand, and the lips beneath his parted with a muffled gasp, letting him slip his tongue inside. Oh, the heat was glorious, so familiar and right and—‘mine,’ he thought smugly as his prize whined soundlessly with each languid lap, stroke, and slide.

Yes, this was Sanderson: his star, his Dream-Weaver, his friend, his love. He remembered now. The girl was his daughter—very nearly their daughter should Sanderson wish it—and he was Kozmotis. This was his family, bound by love, soon to be bound by law. He could feel the heaviness of the rings in his pocket but his heart was light with joy. He knew Sanderson would appreciate the symbolism, more so when he realized the rings shared the same flourishes as his locket—

He froze.

‘My-My locket. Where-Where’s my locket? My locket. My-My locket. I need my locket—‘

Hoofbeats. Thundering hoofbeats in the dark. 

Black horses, monstrous, twisted shadows shrieking as they tore into him; terror, pain, so much pain! There was a heart in his hands and he squeezed, nails piercing, blood bursting, cackling, cackling, cackling, a dark croon burbling in his veins like skittering spiders on his skin: “I am Fear!”

He pushed Sanderson away with a cry and stumbled to his feet.

Sanderson stared at him, the concern in his eyes bright and sharp as a knife.

He wanted to close them. He had no business looking at him like that, not when he wanted to take his eyes to feed his children!

Chirping, chirping, always chirping, tiny bug-eyed freaks squawking in their crescent moon nest—but where was his umbrella? There were no dreams without the pretty pictures!

‘Koz,’ Sanderson reached for him urgently, his shine old and tired, a dying star.

If only the mermaids would stop their singing, he could take a nap. But, don’t fret, don’t fret, love, only a few more teeth to go before he could make his wish. Blood and gums, blood and gums, where were his pliers?

‘Koz!’ Sanderson—Sandy, Sandy, Sandy, buzzing on his lips, sweet little honeybee—was crying. 

Oh, but that wouldn’t do. Diamonds were expensive. Touch them, touch them, how they danced on his fingers! Poor little butterflies, crushed into coins, but shiny things could buy a voice. How many hellos were worth bug guts and silver when Sanderson was made of gold? How peculiar! 

No, no, no, silence was sweeter. 

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, shall I buy you a better coat? Something black and fine, a touch of shadow and time; don’t worry, it only hurts forever. 

Why, Sandman, do you leak? Careful now, or you’ll wash away, and then how could I possibly kiss you?

“Daddy,” the flowers cried, how quaint! He’d hold them if they weren’t made of paper. The teeniest cut would bleed him dry, and he mustn’t waste the ink.

“Daddy,” the grass sighed, and really, don’t let’s be silly! He could be kind, if he were so inclined to give dear Nature a pass: perhaps their begotten were easily forgotten when both she and her husband were whores?

“Daddy!” the girl screeched; the little man burst into sand—

Quick! He had to find a jar. 

Little yellow man, stubborn little man with the pretty smile. He thought he loved him. What a pity he forgot his name. 

“Daddy!” she screamed again. What a shrill bell for such a tiny alarm clock! Didn’t she understand he had no time to give her? 

Your dress will go to waste, ballerina, if you don’t use it to dance. The rats have already taken your crown. Don’t tease them with your locket—

‘My-My locket. Where-Where’s my locket? My locket. My-My locket. I need my locket—‘

‘…I love you, Koz…’

‘Don’t go!’

‘I wish I might, I wish I may…’

‘No, Daddy, please, stop, Daddy!’

‘Everything will be all right, I promise.’

“Daddy!” the horses shrieked. “Daddy, let us out!”

No, no, don’t open the door! You’ll let the nightmares in, foolish boy! 

Where was the yellow man? Please, please, come back! He never found that jar. 

‘You are the best friend I have ever had…’

‘Do you hate me so much, Koz?’

‘We will see each other again…’

Fear like shards of ice exploded in his chest, scraping down his spine as crackling blackness swallowed the light. The ground erupted with gnarled trees, dark mangled beasts that clawed for him, hungry as the angry wind howled. He ran. The darkness followed, a squishing, flailing mass of shadow cackling through his nightmare forest. Horses whinnied and whickered in the starless skies, and oh, they wanted him, too, but for what, he couldn’t say; he didn’t have enough eyes to go around. Then the shadows were nearly on him, spidery hands twisting, ripping at him as he cried in the lonely blackness, and voices sang in the branches: “Your face is white, your blood is red; don’t look in the closet—he’s under your bed!”

And then the skies erupted with dinosaurs. Great long-necked golden beasts charged forward, the world jolting with each lumbering step. A cavalry of fish and birds and Luna Moths darted behind, swirling, twisting into glittering lions that slammed into the snarling ooze. What charming lanterns they’d make! His daughter would—

Daughter. He had a daughter.

“Daddy! Daddy!” she said. “Open your eyes, Daddy!”

Kozmotis. That was his name. 

‘Don’t do this, Koz! Please!’

Sanderson.

‘Now, you get to pay, boy, for losing me a star!’

Pitchiner. Pitch Black. Monster. Murderer. 

‘I squeezed fear into her heart!’

His daughter was dead.

‘I’ve waited for you! Please, don’t leave me, Koz, please! Not when I just got you back!’

Sanderson. Snoozie. Sandman. He was fighting so hard for him.

‘I love you, Koz!’

“I know,” he whispered, and then everything was agony.

He screamed and screamed because something was ripping his teeth from his skull, and then a hot wire seared, sizzling his brain as it pulled through his ears. He tried to open his eyes but pain exploded behind them like jagged beaks nipping at the sockets. Hoofbeats pounded, merciless thunder stomping as his daughter shrieked, the keen of slaughtered horses under a cruel, watchful moon. 

Then there was nothing save the gentle hiss of terrified sand.

Pitch struggled for breath as he pieced his fractured mind back together. Blearily, he opened his eyes and stared at the remains of his twisted nightmare forest. It was more benign than he remembered. As his powers dwindled and exhaustion forced him to sleep, Pitch Black would find himself stranded in a wasteland crawling with eldritch beasts, ones he had created to torment the masses. They had no fear, no belief from which to feed, save his own in that dying dreamscape; it wasn’t long before their milder brothers, his fickle mares, had followed suit. This was his continuing torture, his own personal nightmare: Fear feeding on itself.

But this forest was not a place where the dark things came to roost. Fear had not been trapped here. Instead, it had invaded with a wave of insanity, the crumbling of his pleasant dream. This nightmare realm was not Pitch Black’s. That ball of light had done more than wake him up, he realized. It had almost completely severed Fear. This was Kozmotis’ mind, reeling from the loss as the corruption struggled to regain a foothold. It was rebuffed, repeatedly, and Pitch was suddenly aware of a frantic murmur, the strain of a dreamsand dam pushed to the brink as chaos raged just behind the barrier.

“Sanderson,” Pitch said, cringing as pain flared in his temples. “You must stop. You were never meant for this.” He thought of his dull, tired, desperate face as Sandy cried, his dream collapsing into madness yet again. “It’s draining you. Don’t you dare sacrifice yourself for me! I’m not worth it!”

‘…Yes…you are…’ the sands groaned, defiant to the last, ‘…I won’t…let you go again…’

“Damn it, Sanderson, stop!” he snarled. “You will not ruin yourself to save me!” 

“Yes, he will,” the girl whispered sadly, and he turned, startled. 

He knew his daughter’s facsimile had been part of Sanderson’s dream, but he was still not prepared to see her. She looked so alive, despite her paleness. He ran his eyes greedily over her face: it was just like her mother’s, right down to the soft curve of her cheekbones, and how lucky she’d been to escape with but a slight hint of his nose. His heart wrenched at the thought—‘Lucky? Only if she had not had me for a father!’—and he shut his eyes tight against the scalding tears that wanted to fall. This was a cruelty, one he knew he rightly deserved. Pitch bowed his head and waited for this manifestation of his guilt, or perhaps Sanderson’s conscience, to avenge the innocent blood on his hands. 

“He’d die to get you back, Daddy,” she murmured. “It’s the only way he can forgive himself.”

Pitch looked up, incredulous. 

Tears fell from her green eyes and rolled off her cheeks, seeping into the cold black soil at her scuffed feet. It quivered for a moment, and then bright Star-of-Bethlehem clusters sprouted like beacons in the gloom. He couldn’t stand the sight of them. Damn that bloody rabbit anyhow.

“He does not require forgiveness,” he insisted softly. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

“But he did,” she rasped. “He told you his name.”

“What?” he breathed, shaking his head. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

“He’s scared to tell you. He couldn’t bear to have you blame him, too.”

“Blame him?” Pitch shook his head again. “I would never blame him for this.” He gestured between them. “I’m the one who killed her.”

The girl sniffled. “Me?”

“No,” he said gruffly. “You are a projection, though I don’t know to whom you belong.”

She was silent and then gave him a trembling smile. “Are you going to tell him you love him, Daddy?”

He said nothing.

“Do you remember what you said after we lost Mommy? You said it was like your heart was crying all the time—”

Pitch flinched. 

“—but Mister Sandy’s is hurting real bad, Daddy!” she sobbed suddenly. “Years and years and years, and it never goes away!”

He swallowed hard.

“He just wanted you to love him, and you hurt him over and over and over, and the Moon would say, “You’ll get him back next time, if only you’d try harder,” and he did, but you never woke up!

“It was the next time, and the next time, and the next time, and he had to keep beating you because he couldn’t let you win! He couldn’t! But then everybody cheered when he did it! He couldn’t get you back no matter what he did, and they were happy when he lost you! He was so alone, Daddy! He was screaming so loud, but they just kept smiling because they didn’t know you were gone!” she wailed helplessly. “Please stop hurting my Mister Sandy!” 

Pitch couldn’t take it anymore. He dropped to his knees and gathered her into his arms, holding her tight as she shook against his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, burying his face in her hair; he could still smell the faint lilac scent of her favorite shampoo, and grief nearly strangled him. “I’m so sorry.”

She hiccupped and sniffled. “If you were really sorry, you wouldn’t be trying to run away.”

He felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“If you feel guilty, that means you have to fix what you did. You can’t fix it if you’re dead, Daddy! Just because you’re gone, doesn’t make everything else okay!”

“You don’t understand,” Pitch said tightly, his throat raw and burning, “I—”

“You’re a coward!” she yelled, shoving at him and smacking him with her fists. 

He grunted in shock.

She didn’t care.

“You’re a big, selfish coward! You pretended Mommy didn’t exist after she died because she made you too sad! I wanted to talk about Mommy, and you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t even let me see her picture.”

“Oh, love, I—”

“And then Mister Sandy came. He let me read him stories, and he tucked me in at night when you weren’t there. He ate the birthday cake I made him even though I didn’t make it right, and he said he was proud of me for trying. He gave me hugs when I was scared, and he—he made you so happy, and I loved him because he was like a Daddy, too!”

“You don’t know,” his voice broke, “how much I regret—“

“You pushed him away! You made him let you go, and he still waited, Daddy! He waited thousands of years for you! And what did you do? You told him you’d rather die than be with him! How could you do that?!”

“But—”

“Thousands! Of! Years!” she shrieked, smacking him hard with each word until he finally seized her wrists.

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it now,” he hissed through his teeth as she struggled, tearfully glaring at him. “I know you think if I just wake up from this everything will be happily ever after, but it won’t! It can’t.”

“Because you won’t let it.”

“Because it doesn’t work that way,” he insisted harshly, imploring her—Sanderson, it must have been—to listen. “I opened that door. I turned into a monster that destroyed our world and killed just because it wanted to! Were this thing anyone else but me, you would want it dead! I am a threat that cannot be allowed to exist!”

“Pitch Black is only bad if he’s out of control,” she said softly. “You have to stop fighting the light and start finding a balance with it. It’s your calling.” 

“My calling?”

She smiled. “A Guardian.”

Pitch scrunched his nose in distaste. “Ridiculous.”

“Is it? Fear can protect people. It can ground people, but it takes a willing teacher. Some people don’t like to think of the dark things or their consequences.”

“That is not my problem.”

“There’s a little girl who dreams of being a princess. She sings and dances and talks to animals, and everyone thinks she’s so precious. No one wants to tell her the truth when the lies are so much nicer. So she never stops to think that she shouldn’t be alone outside,” she whispers, “or that the man who asks her to help find his puppy really wants her for something else.”

He shuddered.

“Would you leave her to that, Daddy, when you know you could do something?”

“And why am I delegated to fostering commonsense in naive children?”

“Because you are Fear. You know what lurks in plain sight. The Guardians exist to protect children as best they can with the good, but only you can teach them to protect themselves from the bad.”

Pitch let go of her wrists and rose, snarling painfully, “That is a job for good parents, and you see how well I’m qualified to keep a child safe!”

“Daddy, you need a purpose,” she said firmly. “Fear is always going to be here. You just need to figure out how you can do good until you can learn to forgive yourself.”

“How can I forgive myself if I can’t even live for myself?”

“If you can’t live for you,” his daughter paused, pinning him with hopeful eyes, “can you live for Mister Sandy?”

Pitch froze, then closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. “Sanderson deserves far better.” 

“Is he important to you, Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he should be happy?”

He paused, feeling the distinct prickling tingle of a trap. “Yes.”

“And if you make him happy?”

“That doesn’t—“

She frowned and stomped her foot indignantly. “No! If you love Mister Sandy, if you think he should be happy, and if he needs you to be happy, then you should let him be with you!”

“I will hurt him,” he snapped. “All I’ve done is hurt him, and he’s still suffering for it, as you say! I will not prolong his agony!”

“But you are, Daddy! You’re doing it now,” she cried. “He didn’t hurt because you attacked him; he hurt because he couldn’t get you back. He just wants to save you!”

“That is a lie! I’m not so far gone as to forget that dream!”

“Daddy, that was all you. Mister Sandy doesn’t know. When you yelled at him, that’s the first time you talked to him in days.”

“Th—That’s impossible,” he said thickly. “He’s a Dream-Weaver. He had to have been directly involved.”

“He sent you a dream about me first, but it’s been the same one every time until you changed it. He’s been too weak to do more than shield you while he takes care of everyone else’s dreams.”

“Idiot!” Pitch growled, incensed. “He can’t—!” He cut himself off with biting snap of irritation, then stopped and glared at her. “What do you mean he doesn’t know? You’re here. You’re part of him.”

She met his eyes evenly but said nothing.

“You are not my projection. I knew nothing about Sanderson’s plight, and she must have confided in him about her mother—” He stopped and felt the blood drain out of his face as the thought occurred to him. “But…when I said my heart was crying, that—that was at her grave. I was alone.”

He shook his head, struggling to breathe as his chest went tight. “I didn’t tell anyone. That was long before Sanderson even...”

Pitch rounded on her suddenly, his eyes wide. “What was my wish? You spoke of the time I made him let me go—what were my exact words? What did I tell him?”

“…I…” She shrugged dolefully. “I don’t know, Daddy.”

“If you were his or mine, you would know! If you don’t belong to either of us, what are you? Who told you what to say?”

The girl bit her lip and bowed her head as she mumbled, “Mister Moon showed me things…”

Pitch had never felt such rage as he did then, and he nearly missed her whisper under the screaming desire for vengeance pounding in his veins. 

“…and so did Mommy,” she said softly, peeking up at him through her lashes.

“What?” 

The girl wrung her hands nervously. “She said it’s good Mister Sandy can float because you’re really bad at dancing. She had to look everywhere to find those butterfly shoes to match her dress, Daddy, just to have you smoosh them and break her toe.”

He was shaking. He knew he was shaking, and he couldn’t stop it.

“Which,” he choked, the words like broken glass in his throat, “which toe?”

“The big one.” The girl pointed at her right foot and gave said toe a wiggle. “She was really mad. She made you sleep on the floor for a week because the couch was too good for you.”

A broken noise left him as he stared at her in disbelief, oily black tears stinging his eyes. “You—” his voice cracked, “you can’t—”

It was impossible. She was dead. They were both dead. If she wasn’t a product of his or Sanderson’s, then she had to be one of the Moon’s manipulations. Sanderson would never have allowed her in otherwise. But it didn’t make sense. Pitch remembered her interactions with Sanderson. He remembered the bedtime stories. He remembered the cake disaster. Maybe the Moon would have been aware of them because of Sanderson, but why would He bother with his keeping her in the dark about her mother? Why would He care about him dancing with his wife? 

Unless this was merely the result of his own compromised mind. He would not put it past the Moon to steal both his and Sanderson’s memories to make this creation more convincing. Pitch knew He would stop at nothing to make His Guardians a neat little set, and guilting Pitch into this new collar was the quickest means to get what He wanted. He would not give the Moon that satisfaction.

Pitch drew himself up imperiously and hissed darkly, “Your little trick won’t work on me.”

The girl huffed. “Mister Moon said you’d be this way.”

“Mister Moon can go fornicate Himself with an iron stick.”

“Daddy!” she squawked.

“I am not your father!” he roared, looming over her. “You are some conglomeration of stolen memories and false sentiments! I am no longer fit to be the Guardians’ nemesis, so now you try to placate me with a new role and promises of love and acceptance after centuries of hatred and isolation! I am done being the Moon’s plaything!”

“So you’re going to punish Mister Sandy to get back at Him?”

Pitch scoffed. “Sanderson will be fine.”

“You’re not listening! Everything I said was true! You think Mister Moon is nice to him just because he was the first Guardian, but you’re wrong! Things had to happen, and Mister Sandy wouldn’t accept it. He tried to save us, and it cost him his family!” 

“Lies.”

“It’s not a lie, Daddy!” she shrieked. “Mister Sandy tried to save you, but the Moon wouldn’t let you hear him, and you made him let you go! He tried to go after you anyway, and—“ her voice broke—“Mister Moon sent him years away for interfering! There wasn’t anything he could do to save you, but he knew I was next!”

Dread slithered down his spine.

“I hadn’t seen him in forever, and then, all of a sudden, Mister Sandy showed up at our house. He tried to grab my hand—” she stopped and sniffled harshly, “—and he started to disappear. He was scared and crying, and I—I didn’t understand. He told me he loved me, and that he was sorry,” hot tears rolled down her cheeks, “and then I never saw him again.”

She took a deep heaving breath and pinned him with her eyes. “Because that’s when you came home.”

He tried to hold himself cold, unfeeling, but his throat ached and his eyes were burning. He didn’t want to hear this. Oh, God, he didn’t want to hear this.

“I was scared,” she whimpered, crying. “I was really scared, but I thought I would be okay because it was you, Daddy, and you said you’d always make everything okay!”

“Please stop,” he rasped, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I asked you the riddle just like you said,” she sobbed. “How does a bread-and-butterfly sit on the head of a pin? And—and I wanted you to say—“

“It can’t,” he choked, “because you can’t find a chair that small.”

“But you didn’t say that. You didn’t say anything. You just smiled, and I thought you were going to hug me.“ She whispered brokenly, “But I was wrong.”

Pitch crumbled, a terrible ragged sob ripping free from his throat as tears stained his face. 

He was supposed to keep her safe. He’d held her in his arms when she was born; he could still remember how trustingly her tiny hands had grabbed his fingers. She was a spark of wonder in the midst of cripplingly bitter grief, his pledge to his dead wife that he would survive the wreckage of his life for the sake of their princess. The little girl in his arms needed him wholeheartedly, and he’d promised her that he would always be there. He would fix everything, no matter what happened. 

Now all he could hear was her screaming, and all he could see was the pain and terror in her eyes before their light went out. He could feel her heart going still and cold in his hands, and he was laughing—

“It hurt so bad, Daddy! I just wanted you to stop! But you laughed! You laughed because I couldn’t stop twitching, “like a bug,” you said! You just kept squeezing, and you wouldn’t stop, and all I kept thinking was, ‘This is my Daddy! You’re supposed to love me! Why are you doing this to me, why?--”

He drew a harsh, strangled breath, and a stream of tears gushed down his face. “I’m sorry!” he wept, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, love! I‘m so sorry! I’m sorry!”

“I know,” she whimpered, scrubbing at her dripping eyes. “I forgive you.”

Pitch reached for her desperately and guilt stabbed, splintering in his heart when she backed away. He flinched, clutching his hands to his chest with a low, wounded sound as black dripped from his eyes. 

“I want to hold you,” she said, “but I know you won’t let me go now if I do. You need to fight. You need to wake up. You need to be okay.”

“I will never be okay!” he keened. 

“Yes, you will. You’re strong, Daddy. I believe in you.” His daughter smiled and gestured toward a looming golden door that suddenly shimmered behind him. “You need to be brave now. It’s time to go.”

He wanted to scream at her. He wanted to hit himself for breaking this way. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to take her away. He wanted to stay with her here forever. He wanted to go to Sanderson.

He was frozen.

“I can’t stay much longer.”

He gasped sharply at that, the reality of the end burning like a hot poker in his lungs, the loss of her again unbearable even if she was just a beautiful lie.

“You need to open the door.”

“Nothing good comes from opening doors!”

“Mister Sandy’s behind this one. You have to see everything before you can fix what’s broken.”

“You won’t come with me,“ he paused, the words raw and quivering, “please?”

She shook her head.

Pitch buried his face in his hands.

“He’s still waiting, Daddy. Don’t make him wait anymore.”

He was silent for a long, grueling moment, realizing that he had no choice but to let her go. He didn’t know where, just that she was going far beyond his reach, and his heart bled to know that she would never be with him again. The only small comfort he could take from this pain was the thought that she had found her way back into her mother’s arms. He could never be sure she truly was his daughter, but… maybe, just maybe... if he wished with all his might…

It wasn’t so unheard of for the dead to walk in dreams.

His glossy eyes were wrought with anguish when he finally looked up and asked, “Are you all right, Seraphina? You and your mother? Are you safe? Are you happy?”

“Yes, Daddy.” She smiled reassuringly and then wrinkled her nose. “You know I don’t like that name.”

“It—It seemed appropriate.” He sniffed sharply and then stood tall, steeling himself as he memorized her face one last time. 

“Goodnight, Daddy,” she called softly, and the echoes of their tradition brought tears to his eyes again.

“Goodnight, Gisèle,” he responded, ignoring how his voice shook, ignoring the finality of it all.

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

He took a deep breath and then turned, closing his fingers around the doorknob.

“See you in the morning,” he croaked, straining to hear her reply as he opened the door a crack.

She didn’t answer.

He closed his eyes; hot tears slipped free. 

He knew she was gone.

\--


	11. Grieving, Loving, Longing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though posted out of the original order, this is the last update of the original BGaC. Thanks for reading, and I hope to hear from you over at BGaC version 2.0.

The stars welcomed him.

Pitch was adrift in a sea of night, twinkling constellations bright and alive in the distance. It was the Dreaming, beautiful and vibrant and whole; his bones ached with longing and the terrible chill of guilt. He was home. 

A shooting star blazed past, and he turned, locking his eyes on the golden wisp in the dark. It danced merrily, a young flickering flame, granting wishes as it pleased in the yawning silence. He expected it to carry on, blissfully ignorant in its joy. Instead, the star froze suddenly mid-twirl and hovered uncertainly.

It tilted its shining head, listening to the white noise beneath the nothingness.

He heard a whisper, a disjointed hiss, and then the faint plea of a worn, desperate man:

‘…please…I wish you’d go to sleep, Sweetheart…please…’

It was him, Pitch realized, inhaling sharply, and then watched as the star dimmed.

Sanderson blinked, apparently startled by something.

He wondered why and moved to ask when the star abruptly streaked from his sight. The dreamscape warped around him, and Pitch was in his old bedroom, watching his harried, sleep-deprived self trying to comfort his wailing infant daughter. 

“Please, please, please,” Kozmotis whispered, almost a whine as he cradled her, patting her back as she cried against his shoulder. “Please, just go to sleep.”

The glitter of golden stardust caught his eye again, and he looked to the window aglow with moonlight. Sanderson passed through the glass with ease and then waited, simply watching his past self pace.

Pitch wondered at his hesitation. 

Sanderson looked at his hands, wiggling his fingers as a frown settled on his face.

Awareness struck him like a pinprick to his thumb. This Sanderson had never granted a sleep-wish before. He was just about to wield his dreamsand for the very first time, and his wish had been the catalyzing step pushing his star on the path to greatness. In a sense, he was responsible for the Sandman’s creation. Pitch watched him set his shoulders and float forward determinedly; a strange sense of pride and smugness tugged at his lips, curling into a proprietary smirk. 

The fledgling Sandman carefully made his way over to the poor weary man and held out his hand, gently sprinkling flecks of gold on his fussy daughter’s head.

The whole world seemed to pause, holding a collective breath as Sanderson fidgeted, anxious, and Kozmotis stilled when the cries went quiet. 

He glanced down at his daughter, relieved when she blinked back at him sleepily. “There, there, little one,” he murmured, rocking her gently, and then, to Pitch’s great embarrassment, started to sing softly, “Fleur aux pétales d'or…répand ta magie…”

The King of Nightmares cringed. His voice was atrocious, and worse, Sanderson was hearing this. He’d never have done it if he’d known there was an audience!

“Inverse le temps…rends moi ce qu'il m'a pris…”

Pitch hazarded a glance at his little star and was absolutely flummoxed by the look of—of—well, dare he say it—awe on his glowing face. He highly doubted it was the first time the Sandman had heard someone sing, and he hardly had the dulcet tones of an angel. ‘Or mermaid,’ he thought sourly, loathing the blasted fishwomen that still loitered around the Sand Castle. 

Sanderson was gaping at his past self now, clasping his hands to his chest as though to keep himself from touching him.

Pitch rolled his eyes. Perhaps it was more a matter of bad taste.

“Guéris les blessures…” Kozmotis sang lowly, and her tiny eyelids fluttered shut, “…éloigne la pluie…Ce destin impur…rends moi ce qu'il m'a pris…ce qu'il m'a pris…”

The crackling warble faded into silence, and then Kozmotis gingerly walked over to her crib and put her down to rest. He stepped away after a beat, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. He looked so old, so wrecked, and Pitch remembered how it had been in these moments: overwhelmed, afraid, heartsick, alone—

“Thank you,” Kozmotis murmured, staring out the window.

Sanderson smiled a little, concern dampening his happiness as his Wisher sighed painfully and then drudged over to his bed. The taller man dropped like a stone on the edge of the mattress, wearily curled up in the blankets, and turned his back to the empty half of the bed. He lay there, hunched as though expecting a blow, staring at nothing. He was desperately trying not to think of his wife and how cold everything was without her—trying not to remember the sound of her breathing, the slight dip of her weight against his back. She’d always slept nearest to the wall, and he was so frightened to sleep, despite his exhaustion, because he knew one day he would wake up facing her side and realize she was gone forever.

Sanderson didn’t know any of this, of course, and pouted. 

‘He always hated to see me uncomfortable,’ Pitch thought, still half-wondering at his friend’s behavior. The wish had been granted, and he didn’t recall even meeting Sanderson until he was well into his assignment and his daughter was six. What was he still doing here?

The Sandman bit his lip and hesitantly made his way over to Kozmotis’ beside. He paused, cast a glance over both his shoulders, and carefully sprinkled a bit of dreamsand over his head. The man quickly fell into a somewhat fitful sleep; Sanderson frowned and, after some tense consideration, gently reached out and touched the side of his face. 

Kozmotis stilled, his expression smoothing out with a deep sigh.

Sanderson smiled and carded his fingers through the dark hair before pulling away with a sudden flinch, flexing his fingers as he went. He looked perturbed, Pitch thought, a revelation made even more baffling by the subsequent blush on his cheeks and the return of that decisive nod a few seconds later. 

Pitch shook his head, bemused. 

The nascent Dream-Weaver reached out again, his tiny fingers tracing a delicate line from his brow, down his accursed nose to the curve of his lower lip.

He blinked at that, dumbfounded.

Sanderson smiled fondly, settling his hands on the edge of the bed and then leaned over him, close enough for his lips to graze the slumbering man’s ear.

The smallest of whispers, clear and bright as tinkling glass, unhindered by the hush of sand, hummed in the quiet.

“…Sweet…Dreams…” 

Pitch sucked in a harsh breath and flailed for support, clutching at his stomach in lieu of something more solid. He was shaken, horribly rattled; he could not help it. He couldn’t even begin to articulate how he’d longed to hear Sanderson’s true voice after he first heard the sands speak, and now his unprepared ears could barely comprehend the glorious sound. Blindsided shock slowly gave way to a coiling spark of indignation. Sanderson had known. He’d known how much Pitch had wanted to hear his voice, and all along he’d already spoken—whilst he slept, no less. He’d known and he’d not told Kozmotis. He’d not even offered him this moment as a dream. How dare he do that. Perhaps he should wake and compel Sanderson to speak without his sands now. Doubtless, he still could, and the ways Pitch could coax those pleasing sounds to life were manifold; there were much better things for such a pretty voice to whisper in the dark. 

A violent tremor jolted him out of his brooding as the world changed. He landed on the deck of an airship—his airship, he realized with a start—and quiet clearly heard his voice say, “You’re a star. I’d heard of The Falling Wishes, but I’d never seen one of you before.”

Pitch turned and stared as an older Kozmotis crouched, amused and astonished, before an incredibly flustered Sanderson. The Nightmare King smiled wryly. Oh yes, he remembered this very well.

Which is why he quickly picked up a presence that did not belong.

“I’m going to have soooo many questions by the time I wake up, aren’t I?”

“Frost?” Pitch whirled around, surprised, but did not see hide nor frosted hair of that willowy boy. “Sanderson?” he tried instead. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Man,” Frost’s voice muttered, “I thought I was the first one to do that.”

‘First…try…freeze,’ the echo of sands hissed.

Pitch glowered. If he was going to be trapped in a dreamscape with disembodied voices, they should at least give him the courtesy of answering his questions.

“Really?” he heard himself snort. “This should be interesting.”

Sanderson nodded, wringing his hands as his sands twisted and flapped in agitation.

“You liar,” Frost’s voice echoed his thoughts, though a bit more derisively. “You’re so bad at bluffing. Which begs the question, what exactly were you lying about?”

Sanderson’s voice did not reply, and Pitch found himself drawn to the unfolding scene. Kozmotis was speaking tolerantly to Sanderson who had taken to bouncing about like an eager child faced with a spectacular present. That simple wonder and innocence had reminded him of his daughter in a charming sort of way. Though it wasn’t immediate to anyone else, he recognized the slight softness in his eyes for the fondness he knew would grow into friendship. ‘And more,’ he thought, even as he turned over the affection in his heart like a coin in his fingers. It was an unrequited thing not worth airing. Then, it might have cost him his friendship; now… He closed his eyes wearily. There was no now.

He heard Jack’s voice make a strange noise, almost a perplexed grumble, and looked up. Sanderson was running his eyes over Kozmotis’ body as the two walked. They glanced over his face, lingering on his mouth, then ran down his chest, his arms, his fingers, and back to his mouth. Pitch narrowed his eyes, the beginnings of disbelief rustling in the back of his skull even as Sanderson kept following the line of his back and staring rather intently at his thighs. He frowned, puzzled, wondering if the heat in those eyes was his imagination, and then he felt his heart stutter in cold shock when Sanderson licked his lips mid-appraisal.

‘No, no, no, I must have gotten that wrong!’ his mind gibbered as he distantly heard Frost’s scandalized yelp. ‘Sanderson didn’t—He couldn’t possibly, I mean, he never—I never—I would have seen something, surely--!‘

“You had a crush on Pitch!” the boy blurted. “But—But he’s—well, now, he’s—“

“Evil?” he supplied, dumbstruck.

“—and you’re—you’re you! Not to mention that he’s—“ Frost’s voice stretched on that last word, giving Pitch the impression of height, “—and you’re—” This time it was short, something of grunt like a tightly packed ball.

Pitch scowled darkly. Yes, he had done Frost terrible wrongs in the past, but that did not give the boy the right to imply that Sanderson was anything less than perfect, let alone because of their physical differences. He was neither blind nor stupid; of course he knew Sanderson was a plump little man, but unlike whatever hypocritical nonsense flitted through Frost’s head, he did not find that unattractive in the slightest. It was part of what made Sanderson so very Sanderson. He was a beautiful man, a unique, kind, clever, fiercely loyal, wholly wonderful man whose soft curves fit comfortably against him. If Frost caused his star to be at all self-conscious or ashamed of his body, there would be Hell to pay, thrice-bedamned Pooka mate or no.

Then he realized the ramifications of what he’d just witnessed and staggered under the weight. Sanderson had returned his feelings since before Kozmotis had felt them. How could he have missed this? It was possible that he thought it so unlikely he didn’t even consider it, and it was equally possible that Sanderson had merely felt initial lust before it mellowed out into simple companionship. Contrariwise, Sanderson could have thought the same of him when neither circumstance was true. If that was the case, how long had they remained unrequited with one another? How many opportunities had they missed? And, most importantly, when Sanderson said he loved him now, was it platonically, like he had thought, or was he still in love after all this time and pain? Could any of what his daughter said have been the truth after all?

He pitched forward, his world unexpectedly dissolving, and he found himself in his daughter’s bedroom. The Nightmare King looked strange here against the warm purple and pink walls patterned with bright golden butterflies. His darkness was cold and harsh, an ugly blot in the lamplight. The Sandman, however, was right at home. Cuddled next to his daughter, both nearly swallowed by the blankets, Sanderson was lovely as a glowing jewel, a perfect accompaniment to the hanging prisms, decorative shelves of glittering crystal ballerinas, and the lush canopy bed twinkling with fairy lights. She was reading him a story from the massive book propped up in her lap, and he spun enchanting pictures above their heads.

“Rapunzel had magnificent long hair, fine as spun gold—“

Sanderson made a show of growing long, flowing stardust locks that wound around the room; she giggled, clapping her hands.

It continued in that fashion for a time, and Pitch was content to stand there, basking in the idyllic scene with a soft smile.

Then his daughter paused, frowning, before turning to her companion. “Mister Sandy, can I ask you a question?”

Sanderson nodded.

“Are all stepmothers bad?” She bit her lip and looked down at her book. “It seems to happen a lot…”

Sanderson tapped her shoulder until she met his eyes and then very carefully showed her a series of images: an arrow pointing to the text, a father with a child, that child holding a crown, then a woman frowning until a different child stood at her side with the crown and handed it to her.

“So, she’s mean to the first child because they have the money and power she wants but can’t have until she can claim it through her own baby?”

Sanderson blinked at her, and then smiled and pat her head, proud of her comprehension. 

“Does that happen in real life, too?” she asked sadly, almost worriedly. “Even if they’re not kings and queens?”

He paused, apparently trying to think of a diplomatic answer for irrational resentment, power dynamics, and blood favoritism. He conjured an image of parents embracing all their children and then another pair lavishing attention on a “favorite” child. He weighed them in his hands, shrugging. Either could happen.

She was quiet, unsettlingly quiet, and whispered, “If I had a step-mommy, would she be nice to me?”

Pitch’s heart twisted just as Sanderson’s face worked in pained sorrow.

He hugged her and nodded confidently.

“How do you know?”

A small Kozmotis shimmered above them and appeared to stare thoughtfully at a row of golden women before choosing one. The others disappeared, and the couple was joined by a miniature version of his daughter as a heart twirled around them. The little family looked happy; Sanderson, though he tried to hide it, looked gutted.

“Daddy would make sure,” she agreed, and glanced at the Sandman with an honest smile. “He’s picky.”

Sanderson chuckled silently.

“But does it have to be a mommy?”

Pitch allowed himself a moment of hilarity when he realized both he and Sanderson had managed to flinch and freeze in synchrony. 

Sanderson stuttered soundlessly, groping for an answer, before he changed the stepmother into a stepfather and shook his head; Pitch did not think she recognized the stilted motion for what it was or how deep a wound the answer had struck.

“Oh, good,” she said, oddly relieved, but then pouted as she stared at the new family. What she did next was completely unexpected.

“He’s too tall,” she said suddenly, pointing at the stepfather. “You should make him shorter.”

Pitch and Sanderson boggled at her, mystified.

The Sandman eventually acquiesced and shrunk the man to just reach sand-Kozmotis’ chin.

“Shorter.”

He reached his shoulder.

“Shorter,” she insisted, gesturing emphatically.

The gold stepfather shrunk to chest height.

“Shorter.”

Sanderson stared at her as though she’d grown a second head that had spontaneously caught fire.

The sand warped to waist height.

“More.”

Hip height.

“Little more.” She squinted and held her thumb and forefinger a smidgeon apart.

The figure stood at mid-thigh.

Pitch felt a solid ball of disbelief clench in his gut. 

“Better,” she said happily, “but he’s too skinny.”

He leaned hard against the wall, his mind reeling.

Sanderson frowned, woefully ignorant, but gave the figure a bit of a tummy.

“Hmm…more big and cushy,” she suggested far too guilelessly, “like a pastry, but swirly like a meringue cookie, and soft, too, like Buttons.” She nodded, petting the stuffed bear tucked against her other side.

That finally gave his star pause. He blinked, baffled, and then narrowed his eyes as the picture slowly changed. Sanderson stiffened, his eyes wide in shock and something else that made Pitch’s heart twinge. The Sandman turned to her and touched a tremulous hand to his chest.

‘Me?’ the sands whispered, though she couldn’t hear them. 

“Daddy only picks the best.” She smiled softly, hugging her book. 

The quiet was resigned, bittersweet as Sanderson eventually shook his head; the small version of himself presented conjured Kozmotis with a heart, only to be rejected.

“That’s because you haven’t danced,” she replied as though it were obvious. “Daddy’s picked you; he just doesn’t know it yet.”

Sanderson gave her a humoring smile and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. His sands swirled into new pictures: a clock, moon and stars, a bed. She pouted, a high whine grating from her throat. Sanderson pat her head and rose, tucking her in as his sands placed the book on her nightstand.

“Mister Sandy?” 

He paused, tilting his head.

She bit her lip and fidgeted, her fingers twisting her pillow’s fringe. She met his eyes, looking so small and so very brave as she whispered, “If I’m wrong about Daddy, can I still be your daughter anyway?”

Pitch felt his heart wrench then, the cruel echoes of his daughter’s words battering his mind: ‘He tried to save us, and it cost him his family…’

Sanderson’s eyes were suspiciously bright; the sands were utterly silent, stunned. He hadn’t truly considered that implication of her gesture. He’d been far too distracted by the thought that she knew about his feelings for her father and dreamt they were returned. But to know that she wanted him as a father, as a part of their family even if she couldn’t get her fairytale ending—it was a joy that warmed his heart as much as it broke it. His lip quivered, and he hugged her. 

“I love you,” she murmured and then smiled when she felt him nod and squeeze her tight.

“Oh, Sanderson,” Pitch croaked, remorse and regret tearing at him. If only he’d known, he would have—they could have--

The air rippled, and he found himself in his old study. Kozmotis was nursing a snifter of brandy and sitting in a rickety swivel chair behind his desk. His nice leather wingback had been utterly eviscerated by his daughter’s demonic cat, he recalled; he’d never been so happy as when that horrid beast had died. Luckily, his daughter had been young enough to not find anything suspicious with his insistence that “Professor Whiskerton” had taken a long sabbatical and settled down with a nice girlfriend. Judging by the looks she gave him much later every time Sanderson conjured a dreamsand cat, she’d figured out the truth and preferred to watch him squirm guiltily instead of calling him on it. He never did get around to replacing that chair. 

Upon his desk sat a very smug Sanderson. ‘You didn’t think I could do it,’ the sands murmured.

“You cheated,” Kozmotis huffed. “When I bet that you couldn’t get on the desk without using your little tricks, that clearly included conjuring a ladder.”

Sanderson stuck out his tongue. ‘Sore loser.’ Then he smiled. ‘A new bet again, then. I’ll indulge you.’

Kozmotis looked at him thoughtfully and smirked. “Fine,” he said, setting down his glass and rising from his chair. He wobbled a bit on his feet—Pitch couldn’t remember exactly how much he’d had to drink—as he walked around the desk and stood some feet away. “I bet you can’t do this.” 

He bent down in one swift movement and touched his toes.

Sanderson glared.

He stood back up somewhat woozily and folded him arms, giving him an expectant look. “Well?”

The Sandman puffed up indignantly.

Kozmotis laughed quietly. “You said you’d indulge me!”

He rolled his eyes and then furrowed his brow thoughtfully before carefully hopping to the floor. Sanderson made a show of stretching until Kozmotis raised an instigating eyebrow. He huffed and then reached down. In all fairness to Sanderson, he tried very hard, his little fingers wriggling desperately, but it was a doomed endeavor. Without cheating. Which Sanderson did. He stood, refusing to concede defeat, and sent out a pair dreamsand hands to touch toes. 

“You’re doing it again!” Kozmotis growled. “I call shenanigans!” 

‘I touched my toes.’ He smirked. 

“You cheated.”

‘I still did it, so I get to claim my prize.’

“We never agreed on any prize!”

‘I said that if you could beat me at senet, then I would convince your daughter to stop pestering you over getting a pony; if I beat you, then you had to sing for me. It’s not my fault you refused to lose gracefully and kept betting silly things without changing the stakes, Koz. Now you have to sing.’ 

“Absolutely not!”

‘Please?’ he pouted, staring at him with big pleading eyes.

“No.”

‘Fine.’ Sanderson frowned and scuffed his foot anxiously. ‘Then…’

“Yes?” Kozmotis drawled.

‘Would you show me how to dance?’ He peered at him hopefully.

It was strange, Pitch reflected, watching his face freeze over, the tightness around his mouth, the taut tendons in his neck, the sudden pronounced sharpness of his cheekbones, the cold stoniness of his eyes despite all the warmth of their natural color. He could see the inklings of the unforgiving king he would become, and all for something so petty in the grand scheme of things. Kozmotis hadn’t danced with anyone since the incident with his wife; he didn’t want to tread anywhere near that forbidden ground. Even now, he couldn’t bring himself to think her name. At his core, Kozmotis had always been a coward. 

‘Nevermind, Koz,’ the sands hissed softly as Sanderson backtracked, distraught at his obvious upset. ‘Maybe you could help me practice reading?’ he suggested, shapes swirling above his head. ‘Gisèle doesn’t understand me very well when I try to read her bedtime stories…’ He gave him a small unsure smile. ‘She can’t hear me like you can.’

The silence was charged with something neither of them could quite define, a tension akin to a razor pressed against the one vulnerability no one was supposed to find. Kozmotis was rigid; Sanderson watched his jaw twitch as though he was fighting a bevy of emotions all trying to break free at once.

‘Koz.’ 

“She enjoys reading to you, Sanderson,” he said roughly, forcing himself to relax with a heavy sigh. “I will teach you.”

‘But—‘

Kozmotis raised a quelling hand and then stared at him critically. Pitch could see the line of thought in his eyes. How would this work? Should he request that Sanderson float, though it somewhat negated the point? It wouldn’t really be dancing if his feet didn’t touch the ground, but it might spare his toes some agony. It also might make him look utterly ridiculous. Should Sanderson stand on his feet like a child? Sanderson was terribly short, but that would put him in even closer proximity to his crotch, and—

He blushed a deep reddish-plum. 

Sanderson approached him, a question mark curling over his head.

Kozmotis skittered back like frightened gazelle and then cleared his throat awkwardly when Sanderson threw him a look that was part puzzled, part concerned, part offended.

‘What’s wrong, Koz?’

“Nothing!” he yelped, tugging at his sleeves. “Er, I mean, it’s nothing. I’m fine.” He coughed. “I’m fine.”

Pitch pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. Part of him was suddenly glad he couldn’t remember much beyond the dancing part of this catastrophe. 

Sanderson was not convinced and grimaced. ‘Is it because I’m fat?’

“What?!” he blurted. “No! How could you possibly even-? You’re not fat, Sanderson; you’re—you’re pleasantly…plump.”

The Sandman glared. ‘That means the same thing!’

“No, no, if I’d said you were corpulent, we’d be having a different conversation. Clearly, you’re—er—well-fleshed, but it’s in all the right places, much like a beloved pillow or a—a—a lovey,” he insisted in wild flash of brilliance. “It’s apposite!”

Pitch let out a scathing laugh before he could stop himself. “Oh, well done, old man!”

Sanderson looked distressed. ‘So I’m just comfortable to you. Just a cuddly thing.’

“Yes?”

His expression worsened.

“Er—No?”

“Oh, for Gods’ sake!” Pitch thundered incredulously. “He knows he’s podgy, you moron! He wasn’t asking you to deny it! He knows it’s perceived badly and wants you to tell him you desire him, not compare him to a bloody teddy bear! How the hell did you even get married?!” 

Sanderson’s face had completely shut down; Kozmotis, the hopeless simpleton, panicked and knelt, taking his friend’s tiny hands in his.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “May I please strike away that whole disastrous exchange and admit that I would be honored to dance with you if I could figure out a means to compensate for our height difference?”

A tiny smile pulled at Sanderson’s lips. 

Perhaps he wasn’t entirely hopeless, Pitch amended generously.

‘Why do we need to compensate?’ 

“Well,” Kozmotis started, treading very carefully, “if we were to dance traditionally, it would be much as you typically move; I would be the only one doing the dancing. If you were to stand on my feet in order to learn the rhythm, things would be more inconvenient for the both of us.”

“How tactful,” Pitch snorted.

Sanderson’s brow furrowed, and then he beamed so brightly it made Kozmotis’ breath stutter, not that he noticed. ‘I have an idea.’

“Which is?”

The sands twisted in glee. ‘Wish to dance with me.’

Kozmotis frowned. “That is a terrible, terrible idea.”

Sanderson practically vibrated in excitement. ‘Come on!’

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Very well,” he said, and then smiled in spite of himself; his star’s enthusiasm was ever so catching. “Star light, star bright, the first star in my sight; I wish I might, I wish I may have the wish I wish today.”

The whisper crackled along the sands: ‘I wish to dance with you…’

Sanderson grinned deviously; the butterflies in his stomach fluttered in a not entirely unpleasant way, and then they were both airborne.

“Sanderson!” he yelled—yelled, dammit, he most certainly did not shriek—as he squeezed his friend’s hands in a death-grip. 

‘Now we’re even!’ the sands crooned in delight.

“Do I look like some sprite to you?!”

Sanderson smirked. ‘You could always be my Darling.’

Kozmotis blushed and pursed his lips in exasperation. “Snoozie!”

‘Just—Just calm down, and stop flailing!’ He laughed soundlessly. ‘I’ve got you, Koz!’

He glared, struggling to plant his feet. “How am I supposed to dance when I can’t even balance?”

‘Pretend you’re on the ground.’

“There is no ground!”

Sanderson rolled his eyes and managed to free his left hand with a quick tug.

Kozmotis shot him a venomous glare once he realized he wasn’t plummeting to the floor.

‘You have to put your right hand on my shoulder, right?’ The sands hissed far too smugly. ‘I read it somewhere.’

“Oh, well, if you read it somewhere,” he snarked, mostly just to be difficult, and settled his hand under Sanderson’s left shoulder blade before scrunching his nose in distaste. 

‘What now?’

“Your arms are too short, and mine are too long,” he huffed, and then bent his arm, placing his hand on his lower back and pulling Sanderson almost flush against him in the process. “Better.”

The Sandman stared at him, more precisely the sudden closeness of his lips, and a dark gold blush glowed on his cheeks.

“I apologize if you’re uncomfortable,” he said, the intimacy wasn’t lost on him, even if the reason for Sanderson’s reaction was, “but the formal position won’t—”

‘No, it’s all right,’ the sands sputtered.

“Oh.” 

‘Is…’ Sanderson bit his lip as his left hand deftly lit on his shoulder. ‘…Is this right?’

Kozmotis inhaled sharply and glanced away, clearing his throat. “Yes,” he started gruffly, before clearing it again, “you’re—you’re fine.”

‘Oh,’ the sands sighed. ‘Good.’

Pitch cringed, because how was it possible for two people to be this densely unrequited with one another? Then he groaned because this was him, and the state of their relationship was still this horrendous! 

‘No,’ he thought suddenly, bitter remorse stinging his eyes, ‘that would be implying we have a relationship now, and I won’t even get this when I wake. I’m not this man anymore. When Sanderson realizes that, with everything I’ve done, he—‘

“I don’t want to watch this anymore,” he snarled, loathing every second as their haphazard waltz slowly turned into something joyous and carefree. They were mocking him, Kozmotis’ light laughter ringing, intertwining with the merry hush of twirling sands, and he could feel the moment he knew, as raw and vivid as it had happened: the tickle of Sanderson’s breath against his chin, the wonder in those amber eyes as they’d stared at him, the bright freckles dappling his skin like star clusters, how he’d mapped them with his eyes until they led to his lips, and he’d wondered how soft they’d be, what he’d taste like. Then Sanderson had smiled at him, tender and adoring, and a single clear thought had been his undoing.

‘I want to wake up to that smile for the rest of my life.’

“Enough!” he howled painfully. “Show me something else!”

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for them to be denied their fairytale. It wasn’t fair for his daughter be right about this, about any of this, when he was too late to make a difference. He was too late to give her a family. He was too late to give Sanderson the love he wanted. He was too late to save them from himself. He was too late to salvage any of his shattered dreams. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that everything he’d ever loved was taken from him all because he’d opened a door! 

Why? Why did he have to be the monster? Why him? What had he ever done to deserve that?

The answer trickled like melting ice in the back of his mind.

“Because he told you his name.”

And then the world fell into darkness.

\--

Pitch opened his eyes to a great chamber alive with the faint tinkling of bells and chimes. Recognition and dread clicked as the ornate walls, twinkling crystals, and obscured lapis and opal mosaics filtered into his sight. He was in the first Lunar Lamadary, the holy site of the Lunanoff’s oracle and the Dreaming’s guardian spirit.

“Where are we?” He heard Frost whisper just as Sanderson formed from glowing wisps of dreamsand.

Then blinding moonlight cascaded from a massive rose window. He winced, curling away from the phantom burn crawling over his flesh and waited until the silvery-white faded into blackness. He opened his eyes; they went immediately to the bright apparition he’d never seen in person but knew regardless.

“The Moon,” Frost choked, quite unnecessarily.

Pitch felt his whole body tense in revulsion as the Moon spoke, a clear, pure ring that made his bones ache.

‘You found him,’ the Moon lilted. 

Sanderson smiled, and the sands rustled in joy. ‘He can hear me!’

‘I know. He is your other half.’

Sanderson twiddled his thumbs in embarrassment. ‘We are friends. I…I am content with that. Did you know that the Tsar promoted him to General? He’s getting a new assignment today. He hasn’t told me yet, but wherever he goes, I will follow. I promised his daughter I would look after him, and—‘

The silence reached its fingers out, stilling the soft tinkling music, and then Moon spoke again, the low tones of a sorrowful knell.

‘I am so sorry, little star.’

Pitch ground his teeth and clenched his hands into fists.

Sanderson paused, uncertain as a golden question mark swirled over his head. 

‘Things are now set in motion that cannot be undone,’ the Moon said. 

‘What?’ the sands whispered. ‘I don’t—I don’t understand.’

‘The Pooka have opened a gateway to a new world. Our Age is dying, and Pitchiner will deliver the killing stroke.’

“What?” Pitch hissed, dark rage burbling in his blood.

‘What are you saying? He’d never do that!’ he argued silently. ‘He’s a hero! He stopped the Dream Pirates, the Shadow Men! He captured the Fearlings for you!’ 

“I gave up my life for you!” he seethed. “I gave up everything for your cause, and this is how you repay me?”

‘And he will be consumed by them,’ the Moon murmured. ‘He is your counterpart. You are a Wish-Granter, a Dream-Weaver, a Beacon of Light; he can be no less than your opposite: Fear-Bringer, Nightmare-Breeder, Herald of Darkness.’

‘But he is not corrupted! He is a good man, a great man!’

‘But there is weakness in him, and he will be lost to the throes of insanity to play his part. It is necessary.’

“Because you say it is!” Pitch cried. “You are the one who set this in motion! You’re the one who caused everything! You’re the reason I killed my daughter!”

‘You can’t do this!’ Sanderson cried, the sands howling as tears pooled in his eyes like shimmering glass. ‘He is loyal to you! He has done nothing but fight for you! He doesn’t deserve this! He has a daughter! Please--!’

‘He was doomed to this the moment you told him your name,’ the Moon whispered with the harsh finality of a funeral toll. 

Pitch froze, the silence roaring in his ears as fury threatened to burn him alive. How dare He! How dare He blame Sanderson for His own actions! How dare He make Sanderson feel guilty for something as pure and good and right as his place in their lives! How dare He torture Sanderson with this! How dare He poison this with His lies! 

“It’s not true, Sanderson!” he howled, entreating the star outside his memory-cage. “It’s not your fault! None of this was your fault! Do you hear me?!”

‘I need you, Dream Guardian, and the new world will need him as he will be and as he is meant to be. The God of Fear, the Nightmare King, the Guardian of Reality and Morality—he is all these. But he will only join you if he regains his conscience and accepts his burden.’

He shut his eyes painfully, the cries of his daughter echoing in his head: “…And the Moon would say, “You’ll get him back next time, if only you’d try harder,” and he did, but you never woke up!”

‘I cannot change what must happen; I can only seek the best path for it. Would you prefer I did not tell you and give you a chance for hope?’

‘It is not about me!’ Sanderson seethed silently, tears dripping from his eyes. ‘You’re ruining him! It would be kinder to kill him than to kill his heart! Do you even understand what torture you’re going to put him through?’

‘He will go through it with or without my interference. I offer a chance for life.’

‘What good is it when he would prefer to die?’

Guilt crushed his heart.

‘I had thought he’d seek a new life with you. Love is a great and powerful thing.’

‘He doesn’t want my love!’

“That’s not true, Sanderson!” Pitch shouted, gesturing frantically. “That’s never been true! Don’t you dare believe that for an instant!”

‘He just wants to protect his daughter. What happens to her when you ruin him?’

The pause was heavy like the shutting of a tomb.

Sanderson threw his hands over his mouth in horror. ‘No!’ the sands cried. ‘No, please, don’t!’

‘I have no say.’

‘Then take me instead!’ the sands roared desperately, and Pitch couldn’t breathe. ‘I’ll be the Nightmare King! I’ll be the corrupt monster! I’ll be the tarnished star! I’ll do everything he’s supposed to do! I don’t care! Just don’t hurt them, please!’

“Sanderson,” he choked, tears welling in his eyes because Sanderson didn’t deserve such pain, Pitch didn’t deserve such devotion, and he would never have let his star endure his wicked fate—never.

‘That,’ the Moon whispered, ‘is precisely why you can’t.’

Sanderson buried his face in his hands.

Pitch tried to go to him, tried to comfort him even though he knew it would be futile and nearly fell apart when he passed right through him.

‘It will be hard for you. Until he finds himself, you will be the only one who can keep him in check. You will be the only one he shall fear.’

‘I love them!’ he sobbed silently, tears pouring down his cheeks as angry sand snapped against the stone. ‘How can you do this?’

“It wasn’t your fault, Sanderson,” he insisted helplessly, wishing he could just stop his pain, please—“It wasn’t your fault.”

‘Because I must,’ the words reverberated sharply, and then softened with sigh, ‘and because this must happen.’

“Things had to happen, and Mister Sandy wouldn’t accept it. He tried to save us,” his daughter’s voice cried in back of his mind, “and it cost him his family!”

Sanderson just stood there.

Pitch stood beside him, heartbroken and ashamed.

‘Don’t interfere,’ The Moon said in gentle command, if there ever was such a thing. ‘I am sorry for this,’ the bells jingled, and then the light was gone.

\--

Pitch could hardly compose himself. It was just like he’d been reawakened and thrown into that same fractured chaos of agony; he was drowning in a crushing sea of unimaginable guilt, soul-deep sorrow, and festering rage, but this time, the most frightening of all was the incredible need to ensure that his star did not suffer this anguish. He had to reach Sanderson. He had to make things right.

“Sanderson?” he called, his voice crackling. “Sanderson, please, talk to me! Please!” 

The dreamscape changed, and Pitch nearly retched at the wave of sickening horror that washed through him.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head, “no, no, no—“

It was a shining glass walkway in the midst of white haze. Faint balls of light flickered around him like will-o-wisps, and the quiet was broken by a clicking, trilling sound as old as the groan of swaying trees and the deep thrumming echoes of a battered mountain. Then the glass rang, soft footsteps echoing as Kozmotis came up behind him and passed right through him with Sanderson in tow. 

His face worked several times with the starts of a conversation only to falter, and he clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from fidgeting. 

“I’ve been given the highest honors,” he said finally, staring down at his friend. “It’s one thing to be made a General of the Golden Armies, but to be entrusted with this is the highest vote of confidence I can imagine.”

“It’s not!” Pitch snarled. “It’s not, you fool!”

Sanderson just looked at him dolefully. 

Kozmotis stumbled, clearly expecting something different. “The—the Pooka have used their abilities to create a kind of pocket-prison for the Fearlings we captured during the war. Tens of thousands of them tucked safely away, and I will be the one to make sure they stay that way until the Tsar reaches a decision.”

“They’ll eat you alive!” Pitch howled. “Don’t you understand that?!”

The sands said nothing.

“It will be a solitary posting,” Kozmotis said thickly. “I am unsure how long. My only consolation is that I will be informed about Gisèle’s whereabouts--” 

Pitch screamed, a horrible shriek of impotent fury as he thrashed at nothing, powerless to stop this tragedy from unfolding.

Tears and horrible knowledge pooled in Sanderson’s eyes.

“I will miss your harassment terribly. It won’t be the same without having a beach stuffed in my boots.”

Sanderson sniffled silently, tears coursing down his cheeks. 

Kozmotis gave him a worried look, then crouched, and pulled him into a tight hug. 

“There’s no time for tears today,” he said gruffly. 

The words just made him cry harder, shaking with soundless sobs until the sands whispered in anguish, ‘… I love you, Koz…’

“Tell him!” Pitch raged in Kozmotis’ ear. “Tell him the truth for once in your life, damn you! Tell him you love him!”

He was quiet for a long moment, his face unreadable, and then murmured so very softly in his ear, “You are the best friend I have ever had and the most wonderful person I have ever known. You and Gisèle are my world; never doubt that.”

Pitch cried wordlessly, recoiling at his own cowardice.

“Everything will be fine, Sanderson,” he assured, pulling away enough to meet his friend’s eyes. “I promise.”

Sanderson shook his head frantically, and his mute mouth ran in frightened desperation when his sands wouldn’t say the words screaming in his head. 

“I don’t—” Kozmotis frowned, confused, and then dismissed it with a sigh. “You worry over nothing. Please stop fretting.”

“Listen to him!” Pitch pleaded, wishing with all his might he could stop this moment from ever happening. “Something is wrong; you know it! Listen to him!”

Sanderson cried, helpless as a banshee unable to explain her deathly keen, and panic turned his hands into scrabbling claws when Kozmotis tried to stand.

“I have to go,” he said firmly, disconcerted when his friend tried to wrench him back, digging his fingers into his shoulders. He paused thoughtfully, a sad smile flickering across his mouth, and then asked, “I have a request, if you would permit me?”

“Don’t do it, don’t do it, you miserable son of a bitch!” Pitch seethed helplessly, hating himself more with each passing second. “Don’t do this to him!”

Sanderson just tightened his hold until his small hands trembled with the effort.

“Star light, star bright, the first star in my sight,” Kozmotis whispered, bringing his gloved hands up to brush away the tears on his friend’s face, “I wish I might, I wish I may, have the wish I wish today.”

“Please, don’t!” Pitch begged, sick at the devastation he knew was coming.

Sanderson looked up in shock, and it was a moment, a terrible, cruel moment when he clung to one last sliver of hope and shrieked with everything in him—‘Wish for me to tell you! Wish for me to stay! Wish for me to help, you, please, Koz!’—only to go completely unheard.

“Listen to him,” he cried, ignoring the tears burning in his eyes. “Please, for love of God, listen to him, you idiot! You don’t know what you’re doing! You don’t know what they’ll make you do, please!”

Kozmotis kissed his forehead, and then the hush of a wish filled his mind: ‘I wish that you’d let me do what I must…You’ll understand one day…’

Sanderson’s heart shattered, horror-struck, and he sobbed as he was rendered powerless, hands limp at his sides.

Pitch forced himself to watch, forced himself to listen to the broken sobs his past self couldn’t hear. 

Kozmotis face twisted in guilt, and he hugged him one last time, murmuring, “I’m sorry, Snoozie, but everything will be all right. You’ll see.”

“No, it won’t,” Pitch whispered as Sanderson’s silent cries ripped out his heart. “No, it won’t.”

Then Kozmotis rose, giving his star a smile, before he turned and began following the walkway.

He knew it was coming. Pitch knew it was coming, and that did nothing to soften the blow.

Sanderson bolted up, panicked, trying to defy the Wish at the last and ran, only to disappear in an instant. Pitch went with him. 

They were at the Pleiades. The starry expanse was as familiar to him as the back of his hand, and horror left him breathless. Sanderson literally was years away from him. No matter how fast he traveled, no matter how he Wish-Hopped, he could never get back to him in time. He saw the realization dawn on Sanderson’s face, the hopeless fury and despair tearing him apart from the inside, and the scream— He turned away, trying to shield himself from the maelstrom, as the raw, primal scream of a grief-stricken star assaulted every part of his being. 

‘This,’ he thought, guilt as sharp as a moonbeam blade slicing past his ribs, ‘this is why I deserved it.’

‘I tried!’ the sand wailed. ‘I tried…went… save her…He…sent me…away…years…’

“I know, Sanderson,” he said, his arms twitching with the need to just hold him and make everything stop. “I know.”

And then his star suddenly shot off into the distance.

Pitch closed his eyes. “Please,” he whispered, “please, not this, please—“

“—Mister Sandy?”

He whimpered and opened his eyes to see his daughter staring in shock as Sanderson barreled into her room. 

“Where have you been?” she shouted, stomping her foot in outrage. “I haven’t seen or heard from you in ages, and Mister Nattlampa said—“ 

He darted forward, tugging her arm as she struggled against him, digging her bare feet into the floor.

“Mister Sandy, Mister Sandy—what are you doing?!”

Sanderson tried, he tried to speak to her, but his sands were silent and he pulled with all his might. He had to get her out. He had to get her away.

Gisèle finally recognized his panic, the tears in his eyes, and jerked him to a halt. “What’s wrong? Mister Sandy, what happened? Is Daddy—”

She gasped suddenly, her voice trembling in fear. “What’s happening to you?”

Sanderson looked down at his hands and watched wide-eyed as they slowly dissolved in streams of golden stardust. ‘No, no, no, no!’ he screamed silently, shaking his head as she stepped away from him.

“Mister Sandy, please—“

Angry tears rolled down his cheeks and he met her eyes with the terrible anguish of a father who knew his child was going to die, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mouthed as the sands thrashed and wound in agony. ‘I’m so sorry.’ 

“Tell me what’s happening,” she cried, her eyes bright. “Please, you’re scaring me!”

Sanderson opened his mouth, trying to defy fate once more, only to freeze. He closed his eyes, cruel defeat crumbling his tear-stained face; he did the only thing he could do.

‘I love you,’ he mouthed, despair eating his heart alive. ‘I love you.’

He reached out to touch her and vanished in an explosion of dreamsand. He took the distraught expression on his daughter’s face and her dismayed scream for him all the way back to the Pleiades. It was the last of her Sanderson would ever know, the resounding knell of his failure, and he broke. His star wept and wept in the emptiness. His hope, his love, his dreams had been ripped from him. His family was gone. They were gone. He couldn’t save them.

“I’m still here,” Pitch whispered, crouching beside him. “I’m here.”

That was when he heard it, a lilting whisper that made his blood run cold:

‘I warned you not to interfere.’

Then it was gone, and Sanderson was truly alone.

\--

The dreamscape changed again; Pitch found himself on a coiling dreamsand island and turned at Sanderson’s startled cry. Before them was a little girl in green with rippling dark hair and eyes black as ebony.

Pitch felt his heart clench in hope, only to grow cold when he stared at her eyes. They had been green, bright and clear as the meadows she adored, never as black as coals. The wrongness of them made his skin crawl.

“What is this?” he hissed, even as he heard the sands cry in disbelief.

It was clear to him the instant the girl shifted into a woman.

It was the woman she might have looked like had she aged, and yet not; for this woman was something else entirely, a force personified, with weathered green armor, wild hair, and cold, ruthless eyes.

‘How dare you, Gaia!’ the sands roared, echoing his own fury. ‘How dare you take her face! You have no right!’

“I do what I like, Dream-Waver,” Mother Nature snarled, “and Justitia is in full accord! We’re both very aware of what Máni has planned for the thing that ate Gwyn ap Nudd, and it will not come to pass!”

“Oh, just try and stop me,” Pitch snarled, “you spiteful bitch!”

“You can dream of love all you like, but the so-called God of Fear will be destroyed, and the last thing he sees will be my new face. Such is a fate deserving of a child-murderer!” 

‘I won’t let you harm him!’ Sanderson raged, conjuring a jagged set of dreamsand whips.

“Stand down, Sanderson!” Pitch barked uselessly, panic tearing the words free. “You’re going to get yourself killed! You can’t challenge Mother Nature!”

“He has brought untold pain unto me,” she cried, the crash of thunder and the rumbling surge of roiling seas, “and I will have his blood!” 

“Sanderson, don’t--!”

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Everybody, shut up!” Frost screeched.

And then all was silent.

The dreamscape was barren; the King of Nightmares was a black blot of shadow staining purest white, but he was far from as tranquil as his cage. His mind was churning, wild and vicious as Charybdis. The cackling darkness lurked in the deep, waiting to consume him once more, and he held fast to the one fragment of hope that kept his head above the dark chilling waters. 

“Sanderson,” he called softly, holding out his hands, “please speak to me. Please, Snoozie, let me wake.”

The sands were weak, distorted, a garbled whisper.

‘…need…help……accept…Koz…’

“Sanderson!” he tried again, his voice harsh in the eerie quiet. “You’ve done enough! You need to stop this! No more dreams! No more memories! Show me the door!”

‘…remembers…can’t…alone…not…enemy…’

“Sanderson, let me wake! Show me the door!”

No answer.

He snarled in frustration and reached with the shadows. He would retreat back into his nightmare forest and tear open a door—

Glittering chains shackled to his feet.

“Sanderson!” he howled. “Stop this nonsense!”

‘…won’t…lose…you…’

“You already have me!”

The world shook with a distressed cry, high and reedy.

‘Something’s wrong! ...I don’t—‘

The Bogeyman doubled over with a cry, pain searing as his body started to dissolve in writhing tendrils of black sand.

“Sanderson!”

Oh, he was burning; it was like molten iron in his veins!

Then he vanished in a violent black sandstorm, starlight stabbing like a fiery arrow—“I love you, Koz!”—the guttural keen of a dying star—“Take me instead!”—“How can you do this?!”— “Thousands! Of! Years!”—a bloodcurdling shriek—“Don’t leave me alone!”—

Pitch woke up.


End file.
